


Welcome to Colorful Colorado

by Blurhawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blurhawaii/pseuds/Blurhawaii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benny's gone, Kevin's missing, Sam is sick, probably dying, and Castiel has abandoned him once again. They've holed themselves up in the bunker and Dean's pretty sure he's going insane. When Sam suggests a road trip to the Grand Canyon, Dean agrees. Anything to feel productive.</p>
<p>Set during S8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to shadesofblurple for fixing this thing up and ash_kah for your wonderful art.

Dean hears a painful, wet cough echo around the bunker and pauses in the doorway to watch, his hand wrapped around a chilled glass of water. 

Sam’s not hiding it as well as he thinks he is. Dean has seen the blood splattered tissues in the bin and he’s definitely noticed how they keep piling up while Sam’s shoulders become more and more hunched over his laptop. And, okay, while Sam’s sudden illness is technically not a secret anymore, they’ve barely stopped to discuss the fact that he is literally coughing up his lungs and what that might mean for him in the long run. No, of course not. They’re just doing what they’ve always done; they’re powering though. 

Unfortunately though, Dean is beginning to wonder when all this powering though might just become too much for them both. 

Sam doesn’t even take his eyes off the screen as he reaches blindly for his coffee cup and brings it to his chapped lips. It’s not until he finds it already empty does he notice Dean hovering in the doorway. 

Almost immediately, Dean watches him snap into cookie-cutter shape, straightening his back and squaring his jaw as if to appear normal and beyond healthy. Yeah, nice try, Dean thinks to himself as he steps into the room, like he hasn’t seen that one before. 

“I never thought I’d say this,” Sam starts, and his voice isn’t all that loud in the relative quiet. Not as it should be. The coffee cup is close to deafening in comparison as it clatters back to the table and Dean absently worries for their new tableware under Sasquatch hands. “But it’s possible we might have given Kevin too many pointers in covering his tracks.” 

“Not a single lead?” 

Sam shrugs in answer and his fingers return to the keys. He avoids Dean’s eyes like the pros they are and Dean’s already had enough of this. Enough of everything, really, but that’s a can of worms he doesn’t feel like denting right now, maybe not ever. 

He slides the coffee cup across the table and sets the glass of water in its place along with a couple of aspirin. He then slouches into a chair and props his ankles up on the next seat. He doesn’t miss the twitch in Sam’s jaw and the way he eyes the glass, like he’s itching to say something, deny it, feign confusion, whatever and while Dean hates these conversations with a passion, he’s actually ready for this one and he waits. Except, Sam surprises him by taking the damn pills and draining the glass in a few steady gulps. He drops it back down with a satisfied ‘aah’ and oh, Dean realises, they’re going to play this like that, are they? 

He smiles apathetically at Sam’s nod of thanks and lets it go for now. 

“Maybe it’s for the best,” he says instead and Sam raises his eyebrow in question. “If the kid’s such a regular ‘Where’s Waldo’ that you can’t find him, then maybe Crowley can’t either.” 

Sam grimaces and Dean weighs the possibility that it’s got nothing to do with what he’s about to say but keeps the answer to himself. 

“I don’t know, Dean,” he says. “Following credit card trails and scouring the internet is a little different than actual demon magic.” He stops typing and awkwardly centres the empty glass for a second before he carries on, still not looking anywhere remotely close to Dean. “How do we even know for sure he ran?” 

Dean plants his boots back onto the ground and palms the table’s edge to better face Sam head on. He waits until Sam finally meets his eye to say, “You didn’t see him before, okay? The kid was basically running on boat fumes and veggie dogs and we both know that’s no way for a man to live. He was itching to run, I saw it, and when he had his chance, he took it. Simple as that.” 

“But he was safe there, Dean, and he knew that. Why would he risk the tablet and himself by running away?” 

“I told you, he clearly wasn’t in his right mind.” 

Sam scoffs, “All the more reason to find him now.” 

And with that, Dean sees a little bit of the old Sam poking through, which is both a curse and a relief. He abandons his laptop and Dean, on reflex, sits up straighter. He hadn’t planned to start something over this but it’s probably too late to stop now; anything to avoid what he actually wanted to talk about, right? 

“Why are you fighting this, Dean?” Sam snaps and it’s bordering on accusation. “You of all people should know that Kevin is our responsibility.” And there it is, plagiarised from Dean’s own words, no less. 

“Look, I’m not saying we shouldn’t look for him,” Dean tries to state neutrally, “I’m just saying that maybe he doesn’t want to be found. There’s a difference.” He knows he’s not making enough of a case for Sam because he raises his palms in a ‘go on’ gesture and Dean narrows his eyes. Does he really want to go there? He sighs and rubs at a phantom pain between his eyes and thinks fine, why not? “If Kevin thinks he can handle things on his own, why not let him?” 

Sam frowns like Dean just suggested they leave a box of kittens to fend for themselves, like he was one of the monsters they so often fight, and who knows, maybe he’s getting there. 

“Because he can’t, Dean.” And it sounds so simple when Sam says it, but Dean’s not so sure. 

“Says who?” he argues. “I mean, was he really doing all that much better under our care? Clearly not, or he wouldn’t have high-tailed it out of here, first chance he got. Hell, most of the time he was acting like we were the one holding him hostage.” Dean’s vaguely aware that he’s lost some of his restraint at this point and he can see Sam’s earlier bitchface melting into something resembling pity but he can’t seem to stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. “So he thinks he’s better off without us; I can’t say I blame him. We don’t exactly have the best track record.” 

The bitterness hangs stagnant in the air between them and Dean can feel a hint of embarrassment beginning to claw its way up his neck, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to let it show. Sam’s goddamn Bambi eyes are bad enough without him acknowledging them. 

There were plenty of things Dean wanted to talk about today and this wasn’t even on the list. 

In what he hope is a reasonable, not at all suspicious shift, he swipes up the two empty cups and pushes away from the table. They clink dangerously, reminding him to take a damn breath, and as he heads for the door he can feel Sam tracking him. Dean almost thinks he’s home free, but Sam has to go and ruin it at the last possible second. 

“Dean,” he sighs, and the softness is enough to make Dean stop. He didn’t realise how much he was hoping Sam would keep his mouth shut for a change until he finds it’s too late. He came in here with the express purpose of getting some answers out of Sam, but things have somehow flip-flopped on him without warning and he’s stuck standing here feeling like an idiot for holding his breath. “About Benny…” 

At the mention of Benny, Dean almost laughs. Of course Sam was leading up to this and definitely not anything else. His mind was way off. Thank god. 

Still, he’s glad he’s got his back to Sam because the relief he inexplicitly feels must be showing by now. He’s almost giddy with it, but then in a stab he remembers he’s got nothing to be relieved about. The heavy feeling in his gut triples, and Dean wonders if he should start keeping a list of the people who think they’re better off alone, without him, because he’s beginning to lose track. 

“Benny made his choice,” Dean finally says after his body decides on one prevailing emotion, which turns out to be shame. 

But, again, that’s not enough for Sam. 

“Yeah, Dean, and it’s only natural for you to grieve him.” 

And Dean really hates it when Sam gets into this pop psychology bullshit. 

He turns on his heels and growls in the direction of his feet, “Not when I’m the one who killed him.” 

Sam’s still looking sad and a little hopeful when Dean can bring himself to meet his eyes, and that’s so much worse than anger that he trails helplessly back to the table and drops back into his chair without a sound. 

“He said it himself,” Sam continues, “he didn’t belong here,” which only makes Dean deliberately bitter. 

“Maybe he has the right idea.” 

They’re both silent for a long time. Sam goes back to staring at his laptop screen, but he’s obviously not really taking anything in and Dean settles his head back to gaze at the ceiling. The quiet snap of Sam closing his laptop brings them both back, and the mood has dissolved into this morose blankness where neither one of them feels like arguing. 

Sam scrapes his hair back from his face and he’s looking a lot paler than he did a few seconds ago but Dean might just be overanalysing. “The sooner we find Kevin,” he says, “the sooner we can finish the third trial and the sooner we can be done with this once and for all.” 

The thing is, Dean almost believes him; he really does want to believe it, but whatever the hell is actually wrong with Sam decides that moment to flare up and Sam’s suddenly doubled over, hacking up his remaining lung. It’s a stark reminder that reality bites like a bitch. 

Dean makes a move to get more water, but Sam waves him off. Now there’s blood on his little brother’s teeth, and Dean’s terrified. In the end, he simply rests his hand on Sam’s back and feels the damage wrack his body. The attack continues, and he rubs small circles that do little to help his panic and nothing to soothe Sam. He still can’t bring himself to stop. 

In a lull, Dean clears his throat. “You know, I’ve still never been to the Grand Canyon.” 

He forces a grin, and it surprises a watery laugh out of Sam; it’s amazing that they can joke about this now. Like, hey, do you remember the last time one of us had a clock counting down above our heads? It’s beyond black humour that a couple of thirty year olds even have bucket lists. 

Sam glances up, and his eyes are bloodshot. “And?” 

Now, there are plenty of ways that Dean could answer that, but none that he can actually say. It’s not like he can just come out and say he’s not sure that Sam will be making it out of this one still breathing. He can’t say that he wants to do this with him now while he still has the chance. He definitely can’t say for sure that when this ends bloody, like it’s bound to, that he’ll still be around to do it without him. 

It’s unspoken between them, but Dean knows that however this does finally end, it’ll be an all or nothing kind of deal. 

He can’t say any of these things, but his long pause speaks volumes to them both. 

Sam eventually collapses back with a groan, and Dean finally dares to leave him alone long enough to fetch some more water. He claps Sam’s shoulder as he passes and imagines the warm, dry heat of Arizona on his own shoulders; he says, “You know me. I just can’t stand sitting on my ass, doing nothing.” 

By the time he has come back with another glass of water, Sam’s opened his laptop again and is typing fast. Judging by his face, Dean guesses inspiration has struck, and he knows better than to try and talk him into getting some rest now that he’s on to something. 

He gets a quiet ‘thanks’ for the water, and Dean suddenly feels so very tired. It’s only just gone ten o’ clock and he can barely remember the last time he went to bed so early. He’s not sure he likes what he’s becoming. He says goodnight anyway and gets a grunt in response. Chances are Sam will still be in the same spot when he comes back. He doesn’t dwell on how much that twists his gut. 

As Dean shuts the door to his room, mainly just because he can, he avoids looking at the empty chair in the corner. He strips down and climbs into bed, curling up on his side. Lately, it seems only now, tired and alone, can he allow his mind to stray to places he never can in front of Sam. And it’s strange; neither one of them has mentioned Castiel by name tonight, but his presence hangs over Dean as it always has. All this talk of endings has him itching to hit the road for whatever reason. 

He drifts and pictures himself standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon again, sun warming his face, with Sam at his side and a case of beer at his feet. It’s a good feeling, a great feeling, but it’s not perfect. Just as he’s about to doze off, the scenario shifts and Dean spots a flash of beige. Something he can’t quite name floods his system and he grins, holding out another bottle. Castiel takes it and there, now it’s pretty much perfect. 

\- 

Dean wakes slowly at around six in the morning and, for a moment, he just lies there drinking it all in; the silence, the stillness, and the all-round sensation of being safe, for a change. 

It’s guilt that finally gets him up and dressed. 

As he walks through the bunker barefoot, he starts to convince himself that maybe Sam made it to bed last night after all, because the place does seem unusually quiet, but he rounds the corner and there he is, right where Dean left him. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve been at this all night. Dude, you need to sleep eventually.” 

Sam looks up from whatever the hell he’s doing, and Dean can see the bags under his eyes from here. He shakes his head. “No, I got an hour or two earlier. I’m fine.” 

“I’m telling you now; I bet Kevin’s getting some sleep. Wherever he is.” He approaches the table and finds a map spread out across the surface. Someone’s drawn over it in red pen. “What the hell is this?” 

Sam levels a blank look at him. “It’s a map.” 

Sometimes, Dean hates having a smartass for a brother. Scratch that, he always hates it. “Bite me. What’s it doing here?” 

Sam uses the table to pull himself to his feet, while Dean dutifully ignores the fact that it’s a struggle for him, and goes to stand on the opposite side of the map. “It’s what people do when they plan a trip. They set a route.” 

Dean swallows down the initial panic and crosses his arms over his chest. “You going somewhere?” 

“We’re going somewhere,” Sam corrects, pointing between them both. “I got to thinking about what you said yesterday and you’re right, we could use a break. After everything that’s happened, with you, with me. I think we deserve it.” He prods the map, grinning. “And I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.” 

Dean smiles, but he still feels suspicious. It’s a nice idea and everything, but actually doing it, that’s completely different. 

“What about Kevin? We’re right in the middle of this thing, Sam,” he says, and Sam shrugs. 

“We can look for him on the road. I mean, there’s nothing I can do here that I can’t do anywhere else.” 

“I guess…” Dean agrees and leans in closer to the map. The line starts at the top of Kansas, then travels left through Colorado and down into Arizona. He’s driven further than that in one sitting. 

“We can be there and back again within the week,” Sam assures him, and Dean’s not quite sure when their roles switched; he never thought Sam would have to convince him. 

Of course, he feels the pull of the open road tugging at his limbs, but they’ve got such a good thing going here, with an honest to god secure base of operations; the thought of going back to living out of a different motel room every night just makes Dean want to crawl back to his room, to his bed, and simply wait for the evil to find him for a change. 

Dean thinks of warm sun and fresh air, just him and Sam, against a clean bed and the soft scratch of what he now thinks of as his records, and can’t decide which scenario he deserves less. 

“I guess we could do it,” he says finally, sending Sam a searching look, “if you’re feeling up to it.” 

“I keep telling you, Dean, I’m fine.” 

“Yeah? Try telling yourself that the next time you cough up a mouthful of blood,” he snaps. “You might understand why I don’t believe you.” 

Sam drops his eyes, and Dean feels the bite as well. It gets even worse when, in a blink, he looks back up, teeth gritted. 

“Look, I know, okay. You’re right,” Sam says, and Dean feels no vindication. “The trials are messing me up pretty bad. My body aches all the time and I can’t remember what it was like to not have a pounding headache all day. Not to mention the constant taste of blood in the back of my throat.” He’s looking a little wild-eyed, but he pulls it back enough to sigh, “It scares me too, Dean, but I’m not going to let it ruin the life I’ve got left.” 

There, it’s finally out. It’s been said and Dean can’t, for the life of him, remember why he wanted this in the first place. Sam stands opposite him, his shoulders hunched over and his hands curled tightly around the back of a chair; he’s a far thing from the twenty two year old Dean pulled out of college all those years ago. A college he’s probably never going to be able to go back to… 

Dean reaches out and slides the map towards him. Sam tracks the path it makes across the table with his eyes. When he starts to fold it up, Dean can see the resignation bleed into Sam’s shoulders, and he would give anything not to have Sam hate him before all this is done. 

“I guess we should start packing,” Dean says, and he’s definitely not picking nervously at the map in his hands because he’s not a teenage girl, and Sam is not his freaking prom date. “I mean, that’s what people do, right? When they take a trip?” 

Sam smiles at him, like the big damn puppy that he is, and it’s possible he made the right choice here. Which is just fine, Dean thinks. This is okay, they need this. The thought that gives him the most comfort, though, is that although they may be back to the old way of life, at least this time they will have a home to come back to. 

-

 

**Monday (Late Morning)**

 

Dean is all set and ready to go not even a hour after their conversation because when he said ‘pack,’ he meant ‘throw a couple of clean shirts into a duffle bag and go.’ Sam, on the other hand, must have heard something different, because Dean’s on his third cup of coffee and he’s still waiting. When Sam had closed down his laptop and slunk away earlier, he’d said to Dean, “Why rush?” and Dean’s only just now believing he meant it. 

In the meantime, Dean’s taking a moment to slowly tread the layout of the bunker while he can. He swills his coffee cup and leaves it in the sink, all the while thinking about how much he’s going to miss such easy access to coffee at all hours of the day. He gives the kitchen a lingering look before he leaves and instead finds himself being drawn to the bookshelves and cabinets that line the walls of the main room. 

He pulls a book out at random and flicks through the thick pages. A number of water based serpentine drawings jump out at him and he turns back to the cover in question. ‘Encyclopaedia of Celtic Mythology,’ it reads, and Dean scans a passage about creatures that disguise themselves as horses and drown men by gluing them to their backs and wading into the sea. He frowns and slides the book back into place. As if he needs another reason to be wary of horses. 

Despite that, he has to say the library here is truly impressive. He runs his hand across the spines and mostly encounters books on mythology, lore and various veins into the supernatural. It’s both an eclectic collection and an informative one and okay, he’ll be the first to admit that he’s not exactly the researching type, but there’s just something warmly familiar about this seemingly endless supply of books that makes Dean think of the last home he had. He only hopes that this place doesn’t end up in flames like all the rest have a habit of doing. It would mean a lot of wasted information for future hunters, that’s for sure. 

Some of the filing cabinets he moves onto next are locked, but it doesn’t take long for him to pop them open with the help of a pocket knife and some brute force and rifle through the organised folders. Nothing grabs his attention until he gets to the bottom drawer and is met with a stream of colour coded states. 

“What do we have here?” he wonders, while crouching down to get a better look. 

Every state is there and accounted for, scribbled on a rainbow spread of little coloured labels, and under each one there’s a cream folder. Dean reaches for one and unthinkingly ends up holding the folder on Kansas, tabbed a muted orange colour. His eyes roam over the top sheet. He’s halfway down before he figures he should probably be giving this more attention and returns to the top. 

Huh, he thinks. 

He closes the folder, places it carefully off to one side and reaches for Colorado, a soft sky blue. Arizona, a deep red, follows it. Dean pauses for a moment, and then Utah, green, and New Mexico, yellow, are added to the pile. 

Dean shuts the drawer, grabs his sizable stack of folders and retreats back to the table. 

He’s deeply engrossed in Colorado’s folder when Sam walks in, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Dean doesn’t bother looking up, although he does contemplate what could have taken him so long; then he remembers that Sam wouldn’t be Sam unless there was some kind of secret between them and he shakes off the faint hurt he still feels that this is the status quo. 

“What’s all this?” Sam asks, setting down his bag and eyeing the table. 

Dean tilts his head, considering. “From what I can gather, they’re a record of every fishy thing that has happened in every state.” He catches Sam’s half believing, half confused face and snorts because he passed that checkpoint not even minutes ago. He spins the folder and pushes it towards Sam, adding, “Like since forever.” 

Sam’s still looking uncertain, Dean can’t really blame him, but he drops into a chair and skim reads, eyes widening as he goes. 

“This doesn’t make any sense, Dean. Before we got here, this place hadn’t been touched in years.” Sam stabs the paper accusingly with a finger. “There are records here from a few months ago.” 

Dean nods slowly. “Yeah, I know.” 

Sam’s shoulders are high and tense as he flips further through the folder. Dean sits back and waits for him to come to same conclusion he did. 

“They’re not predictions,” Sam finally concludes, sounding slightly let down. “There’s nothing past todays date.” 

“Unless they were and they just ran out?” Dean offers. 

Sam frowns, things just not fixing together in his head. “But why stop there?” 

An idea comes to Dean at that moment and he leans forward to snag the Kansas file again. He skips over all the other incidents, looking solely for those that happened in 1983. He’s not quite sure if he’s angry or relieved that he finds not a single reference to a suburban house fire in Lawrence. What, was it not interesting enough even to be noted down? With a huff, he shuts the folder and propels it across the table. He’s suddenly feeling the effects of three back-to-back cups of coffee and he climbs to his feet to give his body something to do, anything to counteract the tingling sensation currently swelling in his chest. 

“Are we going to get a move on or what?” Dean asks, and Sam’s head shoots up from where it was trying to bury itself in a folder. He opens his mouth, probably to say something along the lines of ‘we can’t go now; what about all this?’ but Dean’s already moving over to his bag. 

He grabs Sam’s as well as he passes because he can’t ignore the faint sheen of sweat on Sam’s forehead. 

“Dean-” 

“Look, take them with you. I don’t care. Let’s just go.” 

They stare each other down, and Dean honestly doesn’t get what the problem is here. He keeps his face blank and hitches the bags more securely over his shoulder. In the end, it’s Sam who eventually sighs and begins to gather up the folders. If he notices that all the files Dean pulled correlate exactly to the route he’s mapped out, he doesn’t say anything. 

They file out of the bunker, both swallowing down reasons for wanting to stay, and Dean’s stomach growls in protest, but he knows that if he stalls now to make breakfast, they’ll probably never leave. Once he’s thrown the bags into the trunk, Dean tosses the keys to Sam. His eyes brighten, but Dean’s feeling a bit of a dick and he can see Sam’s hands are shaking; he’s had one cup of coffee this morning and it’s not exactly cold, so Dean grimaces and tells him to, “Sit down before you pass out,” and Sam effectively slumps into the passenger seat. 

As Dean descends the stairs leading to the bunker door again, the bulky key lies heavy in his pocket until, with the last step, it feels as though it’s pulling him down to the ground. All the lights are off inside; the place is as dark and empty as they’d found it. He runs his fingers along the etchings lining the door frame, cataloguing the ancient sigils against the fresh ones he’d added on a whim. His fingers linger on one particular sigil, carved in a language he knows both intimately and not at all, and he sighs and reaches for the door before his hand can stray to his ribs, as if he can feel the gouges there as well. 

He has to use both hands and the weight of his upper body to get the door to move, and when it finally hisses shut, Dean locks it with an ominous-feeling twist of the key. He jogs back up the stairs, without looking back, because he’s got a sick little brother waiting in the car and a stretch of road that needs to be covered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Monday (Afternoon)**

 

They’re still rolling through Kansas when Sam snorts at the folder across his lap and rubs his eyes. 

“It kind of feels like I’m reading Chuck’s ‘Supernatural’ books again,” he groans. “Except the prose is better.” 

Dean glances away from the road, noting the tired way Sam’s getting fussy, like a toddler that refuses to take a nap, and files it away under ‘things he can’t do anything about.’ The folder on Sam’s lap is tagged orange, meaning Kansas, and Dean idly wishes he’d at least shoved them into the trunk before they’d left. With nothing to do, Sam probably would have passed out by now. 

“Those Men of Letters strike me as an organised bunch,” Dean says, turning back to the road. “I don’t really see what’s so mind blowing about the idea they had a kickass filing system.” 

“We’re mentioned in these, Dean. Doesn’t that bother you?” 

Dean shrugs. “As long as I’m not full frontal, they can record what they want.” 

“There are cases we’ve dealt with here. Don’t you wonder how that’s possible?” 

“Sam, you’re well aware of the kind of world we live in. It’s not exactly out of the realms of possibility. Now, me? I’m just glad whatever witch’s spell this might be is cleaning up a mess instead of making one, for a change.” 

Sam snorts again, and Dean internally fist pumps his logic. 

“I guess it is kind of clever,” Sam admits grudgingly. “Henry did call them chroniclers of time, and everything’s dealt with systematically here. You read something fishy in the paper, send someone to investigate it, and then file it away for future purposes. Probably helps a lot with future false leads and stuff like that.” 

“Exactly.” 

Dean nods decisively and reaches over for the folder on Sam’s lap. Sam scrambles for it but the fact that Dean’s quick enough to steal it out of his hands, even while driving, just proves to him that Sam is far from being on top form. A sheet flutters out onto floor when Dean awkwardly tosses the folder over his shoulder, aiming for the back seat, and Sam clucks his tongue disapprovingly. Dean ignores them both. “You hungry?” he asks instead. “I’m hungry.” 

A colourful sign to Dean’s left promises fresh grub at the next turning which is, more importantly, cheap, and he’s pulling over before Sam can answer. Dean already knows what he was going to say anyway, some bullshit about being fine and that isn’t what he signed up for when he agreed to a road trip. No, he wants the real deal; cheap diner food included. 

It’s early, barely evening at this point, and there’s a distinct lack of cars parked around them outside the diner, but Dean’s already planning on a decent motel and an early night for Sam so this bodes well. They can go in, eat, and get out again before Sam inevitably crashes from the shock of a warm meal. 

A bell chimes above Dean’s head when he pushes open the door, and it cements in his mind that this is a quaint little family run place, the kind of place where everyone knows each other. The booths lining the walls are a brown vinyl that might have once been red, and they’re alone save for the burly man wearing plaid and a denim vest at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee. 

The cheerful noise summons a petite blonde, seemingly out of nowhere, and Dean finds himself turning up the charm as she leads them to one of the many empty tables. He caught the way her eyes had lingered on Sam over his shoulder. Now, between them, Sam’s always been the people person and he no doubt smiled at their waitress when she welcomed them with a honey-sweet voice. Dean knows from experience that with the look Sam’s sporting right now, with his pale clammy skin and dark eyes, he looks nothing but grim. Beth, as her name tag reads, has no doubt noticed this too. 

They slide into opposite sides of the booth. Beth smiles sweetly and starts laying out menus. Dean tries to not come across as a dick when he gently stops her hand and orders burgers and OJ for them both.

“Dean…” Sam warns him under his breath. Beth won’t look at him, and he’d lost his easy acceptance of being mothered by Dean before he was twelve. There’s probably an easy to deduce reason for this, but Dean learnt long ago not to even wonder. 

Beth takes back the offered menu, and Dean’s answering smile serves its purpose. She ducks her head shyly and scampers back to the kitchen. 

“You don’t need to speak for me,” Sam mutters as the tail-end of Beth’s uniform disappears around the door. He turns to glare out of the window. “I’m not dead yet.” 

It’s uncharacteristically bitter and, as they both know, a low blow. Dean only lets it slide because his little brother’s tired and understandably grouchy, but the sheer extent of Sammy’s emotional range lately was getting kind of hard to follow. Nevertheless, Dean holds his tongue. It would only lead to a shouting match anyway. 

There’s a small tear in the vinyl by his leg. He idly fingers it, pulling out bits of stuffing. Turns out it’s rather therapeutic, and it saves him from having to kick Sam in the shin. 

Sam seems almost disappointed that Dean didn’t take the obvious bait and he sighs, leaning forward to rest his head in his hand. An unnatural crinkling sound follows him, and Dean immediately zeros in on the suspicious bulge in his shirt. 

“You didn’t…” Dean starts, already knowing in his gut that ‘he did’. 

At least Sam has the decency to look embarrassed when he awkwardly shifts and pulls the lump out from the bottom of his shirt. Dean recognises the light blue label as Sam drops Colorado’s folder into the sticky table top. 

“Jesus, Sam. Can’t you leave it alone for five minutes?” 

“It’s just something to read,” Sam scowls, and Dean shakes his head. 

“It’s work is what it is. We can afford to stop every now and then to eat, you know? It’s not a crime.” 

Sam shrugs. “I’m curious. That’s all.” 

He holds Dean’s eyes as he flips open the folder like a challenge, daring him to argue. Dean doesn’t, but the pile of stuffing next to his thigh grows higher. 

Beth comes back then, holding two tall glasses of orange juice. The diner is still relatively empty, and Dean vows not to move from this spot until Sam has drunk all of it. And, if he keeps this petulant kid act up, he could try for all of his as well. 

“Your food won’t be a minute,” Beth says. 

She eyes the folder before she leaves, and though the thought’s only in her head for a second, it’s obvious anyway. Dean’s peripherally watched enough procedural cop shows to know how official looking papers tend to appear on them, and it’s pretty amazing to see her opinion of Sam change in the blink of an eye. 

He knows he’s right when their food comes back a few beats later and the amount of fries Sam has eclipses his plate. God bless America, Dean mouths; it would seem the world weariness in Sam has triggered something in this poor girl’s head, and she’s mistakenly thinking ‘action hero’ before ‘reluctant college dropout’. When she leaves this time, she lightly brushes her fingers against the back of Sam’s hand, where he’s holding the folder in a death grip. Her smile is bright and carefree, and Sam recoils. 

“Thanks,” Dean interjects firmly, not liking the way Beth’s eyes widen. She clutches her tray to her chest and spares Sam one more considering look before she retreats to refill the other guy’s coffee. 

“What the hell was that?” Sam asks. He’s trying to sound angry, but he just comes across as confused. 

Dean shakes his head, ignoring him in favour of pushing his plate closer. “Eat,” he instructs, and it seems as though the gentle touch has broken something in Sam. He drops his head and begins to eat. If it wasn’t for the sorry expression on his face, Dean might have called this one a win. 

\- 

“The Stanley Hotel? That’s something, right?” 

Dean’s just finishing off his fries when Sam speaks. He’s had his head buried in the folder for the whole meal, and while Dean hates it, he’s eating with his other hand so he can’t complain. There’s still a considerable amount left on his plate, but it’s a start. The question is a break in the long silence, and Dean is hesitant to pander to it. 

He drains the last of his orange juice, absently wishing it was a beer, and turns his focus onto Sam. 

“What?” 

“I’ve heard the name before. Why is it familiar?” 

His plan to tire his brother out with a warm meal seems to be doing the trick. His eyes are drooping, and if they stick around any longer, Dean will be carrying him to car. He smiles, nudging Sam’s half-finished drink into his hand. “Heeere’s Johnny,” he drawls with restrained enthusiasm and Sam huffs, understanding dawning pretty much instantly. 

“That’s right,” he says, “it’s like the inspiration for ‘The Shining’ hotel, or something like that.” His eyes glaze over, but he finishes off the glass in in his hand mechanically. 

Most of the items on Dean’s mental checklist are now ticked off: warm food, check, vitamin C, check. All that remains is sleep. He glances down at the pyramid of stuffing by his leg and hastily shoves it all loosely back into the hole, retrieving his wallet with his other hand. He throws down a twenty; Beth meant no harm. 

“What the hell brought that up, anyway?” he asks, sliding out of the booth. 

He catches Sam mid-yawn, and when he answers, it comes out as a toneless drone. “It’s in the folder.” 

And, despite Dean’s initial reluctance, his interest is piqued. “Huh,” he says, “I guess they had more in common than just an establishing shot.” 

When Sam slaps away the hand he’d settled on his arm to help him up, Dean sighs and backs away, jamming his hands into his pockets. Fine; if Sam wants to keel over, he’ll just let him. He can see Beth out of the corner of his eye, poised with a pot of fresh coffee, unashamedly watching them both. 

Sam scoops the folder up and weighs it in his hand for a second. “Yeah,” he says, leaning his dead weight on the table top, “going by these folders, just about everything is haunted.” He pulls a face like ‘who knew?’ but still doesn’t move, and Dean refrains from rolling his eyes already. At this point, he’s just as tired, and he wraps his fingers around Sam’s arm, pulling him along even as Sam scowls and tries to pull away. 

“Alright, kiddo, that’s enough ‘Useless Facts 101’ from you today. I think it’s time for bed.” 

Beth waves goodbye from the counter as they leave, and Dean nods back. Sam doesn’t notice; he just hugs Colorado tighter against his chest and stumbles out on Dean’s heels. 

It’s still early; the sun still hasn’t set yet, and the afternoon heat lingers, prickling the back of Dean’s neck as he pours Sam into the passenger seat. They shouldn’t have a problem getting a room at this time, and with that thought, like a precarious domino, Dean’s mind speeds through heat, sleep, deep canyons, and finally settles on the dream he had the night before. 

He allows himself a brief curious flash on Castiel and his whereabouts, then shuts down the train of thought just as quickly. It can wait. It can wait until he’s sleeping. At least that way, it’s out of his hands. It’s not like he can control what his brain spits out at night, can he? Dean scoffs and forces himself to just get in the car already, all the while trying not to think about how deep this rabbit hole is becoming. 

-

 

**Tuesday (Morning – Some ungodly hour)**

 

Something wakes him before he’s ready, and Dean simply takes a moment to face the ceiling while he waits for whatever it was to sound again. 

He takes stock of the situation. He’s in bed. He’s in room 112, ground floor, corner room at a motel. Something Pine, he reaches, as he didn’t read much past the vacancy sign. It’s light out already, so it can’t be that early, except that doesn’t explain why he’s still so tired. 

Dean stifles a groan and buries his face under the crook of his elbow. That’s when he hears it again. Sam; out of bed, making noise, doing exactly what he shouldn’t be at this time of the morning. 

“You better be sleepwalking,” he warns, sounding muffled around his arm, “or I’m getting up just to kick your ass.” 

He hears an amused huff and then, “You wouldn’t hit a sick guy, would you?” 

While Sam chuckles to himself, Dean reluctantly draws himself up until he’s sitting against the shared wall and rubs the sleep from his eyes. When he finally blinks around the room, he notices several things; the main one being Sam, seated at the flimsy patio furniture that fills the room and surrounded by a disarray of folders, and the other being that it is in fact still dark outside, and the light Dean had mistaken for sunlight is actually coming from the lamp at Sam’s side. 

This time he does groan, and Sam ducks his head, guilty. 

“What are you doing, man?” 

It’s as close to a whine as Dean dares to go, and he climbs to his feet to make his way over to the table. He drops into the other chair, still in the process of waking up, and pulls one of the folders closer, not even to read it, just to move it out of Sam’s reach. 

“I can’t sleep,” Sam says for what must be the millionth time, and just like all the other times it glosses right over Dean, who nods but ignores it at the same time. “There’s no point in trying to force it,” he adds. 

“Did you get any sleep?” 

“A few hours,” Sam offers happily, like that’s a thing to be celebrated. “It helped. I already feel better.” He shrugs, then leans in conspiratorially. “I’ve been thinking, Dean. Maybe this has something to do with the trials. Like maybe they’re changing me, you know, things have to get worse before they get better. That kind of thing.” 

Dean watches Sam, head resting in his hand, while he blinks bleakly through the artificial light. Sam may think he’s feeling better, but there’s a gleam in his eye that strays too close to manic for Dean’s comfort, and he frowns safely behind his hand at Sam’s imploring look. 

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, “yeah, maybe.” 

No one is convinced. Neither one of them bothers to mention that they’ve gone from admitting these trials are quite possible killing Sam to the belief that he’s getting the Six Million Dollar Man treatment. Somehow, Dean doesn’t believe Sam’s coming out of this better, stronger or faster. 

A yawn escapes Dean. A quick glance at the clock tells him they’ve got a fair few hours before they have to be on the road again. There’s no rush, not really, but he’d like avoid the possibility of falling asleep at the wheel while he can. He pushes away from the table. 

“How about you try for another couple of hours, eh Sam? Think of it a favour for me.” He perches on the edge of the lumpy mattress and only looks up when he gets no answer. “Sam?” 

Sam is right where Dean left him, only now he’s hunched over the folder by his elbow, staring down at the paper with wide eyes. His hands are hovering above it, as if he doesn’t quite dare to touch whatever is obviously blowing his mind over there. 

“Oh, wow. Dean, you might want to look at this.” 

“What?” 

Sam scowls. Not at Dean, but at the paper. “Just look.” 

Dean grouses about irritating little brothers, but peers over Sam’s shoulder anyway. He sees nothing but a stream of text, black ink on surprisingly not-yellowed paper, and he shrugs blankly. “What am I supposed to be looking at exactly?” 

Even through the back of his head, Dean can see Sam roll his eyes. It’s somewhat impressive. “Well, for starters, that,” and he takes one accusing finger and stabs it at the final few lines on the page, “that wasn’t there a few seconds ago.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Sam laughs and throws himself back in his chair. “I mean, that space was blank and those words appeared right as I was looking at it.” 

“They appeared?” 

“Yes, Dean. They appeared.” Sam stabs at the paper a few more times, like that’s going to convince Dean. “Like someone was just writing them down as I watched.” 

Dean tilts his head, considering. “Huh?” 

Sam blinks. “Huh?” he mimics. “That’s all you have to say. Huh?” 

“Well, I don’t know, Sam,” Dean quickly retaliates, trying not to take offence. “It’s weird. I don’t know what more you want me to say.” He scrubs his face until it hurts, resigns himself to the fact he’s probably not getting any more sleep after this, and takes a measured breath. “What does it say?” 

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it again. It occurs to Dean that Sam has no idea either, and he levels a disappointed look at him before he pads back over to the table, giving Sam a moment to read over the text. 

“It’s a bus crash,” he says concisely, looking up. “In Colorado.” 

“Not very spooky,” Dean muses. He glances at his wrist, and remembers too late that his watch is still sitting over by the bed. He’d gotten into the habit of taking it off while he slept at the bunker, and now his arm feels oddly naked. He shakes the feeling off, literally, and tries the clock again instead. “Do you think it’s happening right now?” 

“If it’s magic, I’d like to think it’s at least up to date magic.” He scratches at the patchy stubble starting to cover his chin and thinks. “Get the TV, would you?” 

Even as Dean reaches for the remote, he’s shaking his head. “I wouldn’t exactly call this breaking news, Sam. Car crashes happen every day.” 

Sam nods, accepting, but waves his hand, gesturing at the splayed paper around him. “As far as I can tell, there’s nothing new in any of the other folders. If this crash is good enough for them, then maybe there’s more to it than just a regular car crash.” 

And Dean can’t refute that logic. 

The television clicks on to static. The cheap buzzing makes the teeth in Dean’s mouth ache, and he starts to cycle through the channels before he’s forced to bite down against the vibrations. At this time, it’s still mostly an insomnia-comforting stream of infomercials. When he eventually finds a twenty-four hour news station, he’s not particularly surprised to find no mention of a crash somewhere near the Colorado/Kansas state line. 

He clucks his tongue in sympathy and tosses Sam the remote. Sam catches it clumsily and then melts into the creaky chair. It sways dangerously under his weight, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he settles into what looks to Dean like a long, fruitless wait. Dean’s own back screams in pain at the way Sam is slouched, and he can only watch him for a second before he’s up, clapping his hands together. 

“I can’t let you do this, Sam,” he starts, and Sam simply raises an eyebrow without looking away from the flickering screen. Dean closes his eyes in answer and breathes through the frustration. “At least get into bed,” he presses instead, “get comfy. I don’t want you bitching later about how much your back hurts.” 

Sam then turns to stare him down, obviously searching for the reason why Dean has voluntarily backed down on the sleeping issue. Dean has no idea what he finds, but Sam throws up his hands in defeat anyway and stumbles back to his bed. He settles on top of the covers, back against the wall, and continues to stare blankly at the screen. 

Again, it’s still not really a win in Dean’s book, but he’ll take what he can get. He switches off the lamp, and the light from the TV throws long, unhealthy shadows onto Sam’s face. He crosses the room, mimicking Sam’s position on the other bed, and lets the repetitive motion of the low key news lull him into another dreamless sleep. 

-

 

**Tuesday (Actual morning)**

 

When he wakes again, it’s to the sting of real sunlight blinding him. He’s slumped against the wall with his arms crossed around his chest, and there’s an insistent ache pulling at his neck and shoulders. When he first tries to move it spreads down his back like a trickle of cold water, resulting in a noise that’s not even close to words spilling out of his mouth. 

“I don’t want to hear you bitching later,” Sam says from the other side of the room, and there’s amusement spilling from him, so Dean lets the backfired jab go. The pain isn’t something a warm shower couldn’t fix, anyway. 

“Screw you,” he throws back lightly, because he still can’t let something like that go unanswered, and gingerly slides off the bed. 

The television is still on, but the same stories still scroll across the bottom of the screen. Dean looks over at Sam, and he must have gotten bored, too, because he has his laptop open on his thighs. 

“Anything?” he asks. 

“Not from the TV but…” he draws out the word, climbing to his feet and carrying the laptop over to the table. “The local news website turned out to be more helpful.” 

“So it did happen?” 

“Yeah, early this morning,” Sam snorts, dropping into position at the table and tapping a few keys to bring up the page. “It’s actually pretty amazing. I’m not sure what really happened there but it’s definitely something screwy. Listen to this. This is an account from one of the passengers.” 

Dean takes the other seat. He rolls his shoulders experimentally until Sam catches him, and then relaxes into the impromptu story time. 

“It was horrible,” Sam reads, “I swore we were dead. They told us later that we skidded into one of the barriers, but, at the time, we had no idea. There was this screeching bang, and, the next thing I know, I’m weightless. The bus rolled a few times, and then I felt this stabbing pain through my shoulder and I thought, this is it, I’m dead. And then, and it’s the craziest thing, I wake up in the wreckage, covered in blood, with not a scratch on me. I walked out of that wreckage when, by all rights, I should have been dead.” 

“This sounds like a good thing,” Dean says, flat, when Sam looks up with a smile. 

“She’s not the only one with a story like this, Dean.” He scrolls further down the page and Dean catches a glimpse of the completely totalled bus as it passes. “Two other passengers describe the same thing. This guy felt his leg snap only to wake up with it fixed.” 

Dean ponders this for a second and comes up blank. “Well, what do we know that has that kind of power and actually uses it for good?” It’s not a question he finds himself asking very often, he has to admit. 

Sam has his own ideas, though, because he avoids Dean’s eyes as he fidgets with the laptop. “That’s the thing; all the other passengers, the ones that weren’t knocked unconscious, recall the same bright light and warm glow immediately after the bus stopped rolling.” 

The words send a thrill of familiarity through Dean. Bright light, warm glow, radiating inwards; he’s been subjected to that feeling far too many times. The sense memory of cool fingers against his forehead is not the problem here, however. The problem here is Sam and his new sensitivity in mentioning Castiel around him. Just how bad were things if it was starting to bleed into their interactions as well? 

“Do you think,” Sam tries, and bless him for powering through, “do you think it’s Cas?” 

“It’s certainly his M.O,” Dean admits. “This seems like a boy scout move to me.” 

“I mean, unless there’s another rebelling, do-good angel out there somewhere, it’s got to be, right?” 

“Maybe,” Dean shrugs, but he’s already had his fill of this conversation. He can accept that it’s always been a tricky subject between them, so points to Sam for even daring to bring it up. Except, Castiel’s name alone brings with it a number of warring emotions in Dean; the prevailing one right now happens to be mostly regret. He’s not going to lie; just the mere mention that Castiel could be close by, spreading his penance with a kind of warmly familiar fervour, makes him want to get back in that car, track down the infuriating creature and simply shake him until he understands everything Dean has ever wanted to say to him. 

But that’s not going to be happening in this lifetime, or the next. Never will. And that sucks. 

And, at this time in the morning, he really doesn’t need a reminder of that fact. 

He leaves the table, clapping Sam on the shoulder on his way to retrieve his watch. He tries for nonchalance and misses it by a mile. “I’m going to shower and then we’ll head out, okay? We’ll get some breakfast or something. I’m starving.” 

It’s not a retreat, he tells himself, ignoring Sam’s ‘I’m ready to talk’ face; he just really wants a shower. 

“I wonder if he’s okay,” Sam manages to say before Dean can close the door all the way, and when he glances back, Sam is not wearing his ‘wondering’ face. No, this is his ‘I know something you don’t’ face, and that’s enough for Dean to shut him out completely. 

-

**Tuesday (Early afternoon)**

 

Dean clocks the ‘Welcome to Colourful Colorado’ sign not long after they hit the road again, stomachs stuffed with breakfast. Well, Dean’s is; Sam barely touched his mixed fruit thing before he pushed the plate away, declaring he wasn’t hungry. At that moment, Dean had seen that he had two choices; he could start an argument, or he could let it go. In the end, he chose what was behind door number three, and the leftovers were now sweating in a plastic container on the back seat. 

On closer inspection, he’s not actually sure who won that round. 

The Colorado sign passes in a blur. Kansas peels away around them, and a sly smile spreads across Dean’s face. 

“Hey, Sam,” he says. 

And, without looking up from that goddamn folder on his lap, Sam shakes his head. “Don’t do it, Dean.” 

“Don’t do what?” 

“Don’t bother saying what you were going to say.” 

Dean splutters and then narrows his eyes, unconvinced. “And how could you possibly know what I was going to say? You’re not psychic boy anymore.” 

Sam scoffs and finally tears his eyes away from the folder to roll them in Dean’s direction. “I don’t have to be psychic to know you were about to quote Wizard of Oz, Dean. You’re predictable.” 

There’s a pause where Dean fidgets and drums his fingers on the wheel. He’s not sure when Sam’s frankly bi-polar mood swings had turned back into his usual know-it-all attitude, but he guesses it was around the time these folders stopped being just a pain and became a thread of a case. Maybe he’s not the only one who hates to sit back and twiddle his thumbs. 

“So what,” he says, after a beat, “you got lucky.” 

Sam snorts, and they spend the next few miles leaving Kansas in their dust and ignoring each other. The quiet hum of the radio is the only thing keeping them from an awkward silence. There’s a straight stretch of road in front of him, and when he rolls down the window to get a hint of that fresh air, it rattles the sheets of paper Sam is trying to read. Dean smiles to himself, feeling genuinely at ease for the first time in a long while. 

“Oh, man,” Sam interrupts, and what the hell was Dean thinking? Never acknowledge a good feeling; it will just get ripped out from under your feet, knocking you on your ass in the process. What a rookie mistake. 

The hiss of the wind dies out as Dean shuts the window. He allows himself one last wistful look at the fields around them and asks, “What?” with reluctance veritably dripping off the single word. 

“I think I just figured out what these folders are.” He flips through several pages at a speed where he can’t possibly be reading anything and stops on a random page. “This isn’t a record of everything, just cases that could be classed as unfinished.” 

He holds Colorado up so that the block of text faces Dean, and shakes it a few times as if he’s completely forgotten the fact that Dean is driving and doesn’t want to crash on a relatively empty road. 

“Okay,” Dean says, not bothering to look away, “and that changes what exactly?” 

“There’s a lot in these folders, Dean. And, if for each one of these bullet points there’s something dangerous still at large, I’d say that’s a pretty big deal, wouldn’t you?” 

In that moment, Dean really regrets finding these stupid folders. They could have been out the door and free if he’d just kept his hands in his pockets. Well, free-ish, he thinks, and he really doesn’t want to guilt trip Sam right now, not when he was just getting life back into him, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

He pulls over onto the shoulder and waits until the car’s rumble has cut out completely to twist around in his seat. Sam barely seems to notice the fact that they’re no longer moving; he’s still holding out the folder for Dean to take a look. Dean takes it and puts it face down on his lap. 

“We’ve got far too much on our plate, Sam, without adding this to the mix.” 

Sam blinks like he’s coming out of this fevered stupor, like he’s just now realising where they are and what they’re doing. Dean notices there’s also a light flush to his face. 

“I’m not suggesting we- that we drop everything and focus on this. I’m not.” Sam ducks his head and scrubs hard at his forehead. It’s a stupid thing to worry about, but it really looks to Dean like, at any moment, his brains are just going to come leaking out of his head. 

Sympathy swells in him. If he could have shouldered this burden, he would have. It was supposed to be him, and it’s selfish, he knows it is, but he’s sick of seeing Sam this way. It’s actually less painful at this point to be the one in pain. 

“But you were, Sam” Dean presses on, “and that’s my fault. I don’t know what the hell is going on with our priorities lately, but it’s my fault we’re here, on some country road in Colorado, for fuck’s sake, and not back at the bunker, which is where we should be.” 

“Dean…” 

Any feelings of sympathy quickly get pushed aside when a wave of self-loathing makes itself known. He punches the wheel with an open palm until the shock tingles up his arm, securing Sam’s full attention before he carries on. 

“When was the last time we even tried for Kevin? Sunday? What the hell, Sam? I gave you so much shit when I found out you’d ignored his calls, and here we are doing it all over again.” 

When Dean catches Sam’s gaze he finds a panic that nearly matches his own. Except, Dean kind of expected this would happen somewhere down the road, whereas the racing thoughts behind Sam’s eyes prove this is going in the far opposite direction than the one he was hoping for. 

“We’re trying, Dean.” 

“Not hard enough.” 

“We’ve exhausted every lead we had,” Sam reminds him, throwing his hands into the air. “And we’re not about to forget him, but it goes two ways, Dean. He has our numbers if he needs them.” 

That’s the thing, though. Dean wouldn’t blame Kevin if he didn’t contact them; he gets that they haven’t been the most helpful allies in all this, but that doesn’t mean he still doesn’t feel responsible for the kid. 

Dean deflates back into the seat with a sigh. Sam’s watching him expectantly, and he can’t deal with that right now. He covers his eyes with his hand and lets all the conflicting thoughts battle themselves until there’s a clear winner. 

“I don’t know, Sam. Maybe we should just go back?” 

Sam doesn’t answer, but Dean hears a measured breath, and then the engine sparks to life without him even moving. Peeking through his fingers, he sees Sam leaning towards him, his hand around the keys and his expression solemn. 

“What about this,” he asks. “If I give it a rest with the folders can we keep going?” 

“It’s not just the folders, Sam. It’s everything. It’s Kevin and the trials and Crowley and…and everything else.” 

Hearing this, Sam nods jerkily and begins to shuffle the leftover folders on his lap into a messy pile. He then reaches over and tosses them onto the back seat, splaying his now empty fingers wide like he’d just performed some amazing disappearing trick.

“Files, gone. And I’ll open up some channels; ask around. Maybe someone’s seen Kevin since then. That’s probably our best bet in finding him. As for the trials,” he pauses, struggling to get the right words. “The trials were the reason why we were doing this, Dean. Remember?” 

Dean frowns. “Doesn’t it just seem, I don’t know, disrespectful to you?” 

He didn’t mean it as a joke, but Sam laughs anyway, and he finds himself smiling back. 

“Not really. I mean, we kind of deserve this, don’t we? It’s an American staple, and I’d like to be able to cross it off before it’s too late.” 

Ignoring the ‘too late’ part, Dean agrees. It would be nice to be able to do something normal for a change, something that doesn’t hang people’s lives in the balance. As he stares out of the window, he remembers where they are, and if the fields and the sky seem more colourful than before, he thinks he actually notices. He puts his hands at ten and two and tightens his jaw. 

“Just a couple of tourists,” he says, finally. 

“Just a couple of nobodies,” Sam agrees. 

Just like that, they’re smiling again. 

He pulls back onto the road, heading away from Kansas, and keeps going. 

They’re crossing the next mile marker when he remembers Colorado’s file is still in his lap. He hefts the negligible weight in his hand as he drives, and his thumb brushes across the last couple of lines, almost tenderly. He doesn’t want to smudge the ink, he assures himself, if magic ink can even smudge, and that’s all. He has a vague notion that the further they move away from the state border, the further they are moving from Castiel, but it’s gone as soon as it appears. 

He holds it out to Sam and it quickly joins the ruined fruit on the back seat. 

While they may be pushing the limits of acceptable hunter practise by focusing on their own selfish needs, there’s at least a silver lining. 

“At least we know Cas is still alive somewhere out there, right?” Dean laughs; it’s bitter tasting, and he’s left wondering ‘where the hell did that come from?’ 

“Dean,” Sam starts to say. He stops when Dean looks up, guilty, not having been able to wipe away the shock at his own running mouth from his face. 

“Let’s not,” he says, and it’s not a whine, not even close. 

And Sam, the little trooper that he is, doesn’t push it. 

Dean probably should start listening to his own advice, though, as good feelings definitely never last. Especially when you’re the one who ruins it. 

-

**Tuesday (Evening)**

 

They’ve made a quite a dent in Colorado by the time Sam suggests they stop for food. Do his ears deceive him? Sam is actually hungry? Dean can’t help it; he mimes losing control of the car after asking him to repeat himself, earning him a shove into the car door. 

He quickly loses all faith, however, when Sam vetoes the next four places they pass. His excuses get thinner and thinner, and Dean resigns himself to having to choke down the mixture of soggy fruit in order to stave off the hunger headache that’s starting to form just above his left eye. He’s doubly confused when Sam starts spouting suggestions such as ‘try down there’ and ‘maybe the next street’, as if searching for something. 

Dean wasn’t aware he’d taken to memorising maps in his spare time. Poorly, he might add. 

The jackpot strikes when they’re in the heart of whatever town they’re passing through. Dean’s not paying all that much attention to the buildings anymore because it’s clear he hasn’t got a say in where they stop, so when Sam finally jabs his finger at a place, Dean jerks back from the arm waving in front of his face. He pulls over, mostly as a reflexive action. 

“How about that place?” 

Dean screws up his face. “What? I actually get a say?” 

He glares through the window at the one place out of many that Sam deems worthy and finds nothing spectacular. It’s kind of small, set back from the road, right on the corner of a block. A pretty desirable spot to be, from a financial view point, as right across the road there’s a wide expanse of greenery and a collection of swings and climbing frames. A few tables sit around the entrance, and it resembles a café more than a greasy dive. 

Not the usual fare, that’s for sure. 

He turns back to Sam in question. “Any reason why this place is different from all the rest?” 

Sam frowns his stupid muppet frown and shrugs. “No reason.” 

Narrowing his eyes isn’t even enough to convey how little Dean believes that, but he gets out of the car anyway, and Sam follows after a pleasantly surprised pause. 

Inside, the place is cleanly, if plainly, decorated in pale blue and green. There are more people about than the last diner, and Dean wonders if this plays into any plans Sam has about this place. He keeps his eyes peeled anyway as they snag a booth. 

When his brother settles in opposite him, he has to admit he gapes stupidly for a moment. He’s not even sure this is his brother anymore because, whoever this is, he doesn’t even come close to the drowned cat Sam resembles lately. No, this guy is smiling. 

Dean leans over the table and whispers, “Did something snap in your head when I wasn’t looking?” 

“What? No,” Sam splutters, double taking between him and the movement of people around them. “Why?” 

Dean tilts his head. “Dude, you’re glowing.” 

Bitch face number infinity gets thrown Dean’s way and then immediately melts away into a more polite expression as their waitress sidles up to the table. Watching Sam closely, Dean doesn’t miss the flash of…something in his eyes. 

She’s older than both of them, with lines marring her face in a way that shows she spends a lot of time smiling; whether for the job or not, it doesn’t matter. There are considerable bags under her eyes as well, like last night wasn’t the first sleepless night she’s had in a while, but she clearly doesn’t dwell on them. 

“Welcome,” she beams. “So what can I get you boys to drink?” 

In a complete turnaround from yesterday, Sam meets her eyes with a smile, ordering for them both before Dean can even open his mouth. Now, this could just be pay back for the day before, but Dean knows a scheme when he sees one. So, unless Sam has suddenly acquired a taste for older women, something is unravelling in front of him. Problem is, he has no idea what. 

Dean waits until she’s jotted down their orders and has moved out of earshot, and then he taps his rings sharply against the table top, thinking. 

“She’s nice,” he says at last, nodding. “Just promise me I get to do your hair for the wedding.” It’s a non-sequitur to end all non-sequiturs, and the cogs would be turning all night if he left it at that. “You were staring,” he concludes bluntly, taking pity. 

“No I wasn’t.”

“You were creeping,” Dean assures, and Sam continues to deny up to the point when she comes back carrying a beer and a coke and the staring starts up all over again. So much so that Dean’s not the only one who notices. 

“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to get the wrong idea.” She laughs gently, like this isn’t the first time this has happened and certainly won’t be the last. Dean knows he is without shame, but even he feels embarrassed. 

Except, Sam clearly doesn’t. 

“Sorry,” he says, even though it’s obvious he isn’t. He drops his chin into his hand and squints up at her. “You just seem really familiar to me.” 

Running his eyes over her, Dean accepts he has absolutely no idea where Sam is going with this. He settles back into the booth with nothing better to do than to watch the show unfold. 

The waitress blushes lightly at Sam’s admission and her hand absently rises to her shoulder, where she rubs small circles in her uniform with a dull look in her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve been hearing that a lot today.” When she smiles again, it’s slightly forced. “You must have read the paper this morning. You appear in one photo and suddenly you’re a local celebrity. It’s good for business, though; it’s the only reason I agreed to an interview.” 

Recognition sparks in Sam, and he clicks his fingers excitedly. “That’s right, you were in that…um,” he tones down his enthusiasm to adopt a more worried look, “that bus crash this morning. Wow, are you sure you’re okay to be working so soon?” 

She waves her hand dismissively, like it was nothing, when they all saw that wrecked bus and know the opposite. “I may be happy and healthy,” she jokes, “but I’ve still got bills to pay.” 

“Still, everyone was lucky to come out of that unharmed.” 

Pushing her hair behind her ear, she gets a faraway look on her face. “I guess,” she says, and her hand creeps back to her shoulder. “Although, my guardian angel could have made it so that I won the lottery as well, while he was at it.” 

Dean’s already silently fuming as they talk, recalling Sam’s lying face in the car earlier as he discards the folders and swears off on them completely. He snaps back to the conversation thanks to that single word, and he’s left having to send his disbelief to Sam telepathically because, all of a sudden, he won’t meet his eye. 

“Your guardian angel?” Sam repeats, oh so normal, like his acting isn’t worthy of an Oscar right now. 

She seems to regret opening her mouth when her words get echoed back at her. There’s a moment of indecision and then, wrongly judging Sam as a trustworthy face, she moves into the booth to perch on the bench next to Dean. 

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.” 

Instantly, whatever act Sam has put on drops away. “I really won’t,” he says, holding his hand out to her in a belated greeting. “I’m Sam.” 

“Amanda,” she offers, taking it, and they shake gently. 

They both ignore Dean completely, and he’s fine with it, really, except for the part where he’s now boxed against the wall. 

“Do you think that’s why no one was hurt,” Sam guesses, “that something was watching over you?” 

Amanda lifts her shoulders carelessly, and then with a paranoid glance around she leans into the conversation with a dropped hush to her words. “I didn’t tell the papers any of this because I was worried they’d spin it in the wrong direction, blame it on a concussion or something, but I saw him.” 

Sam meets her half way across the table. “Who?” 

“The angel.” 

It’s the wide eyes that Sam mirrors back at Amanda that finally breaks Dean, and he groans into his hand. He’s going to kill Sam when all this is over. Screw the trials and the trip; he’ll do all this alone as long as he doesn’t have to put up with this very special kind of torture. 

The noise is enough to make Amanda shrink back. Instead of shutting down, though, and returning to her job with the embarrassment of getting carried away, she puffs up her chest and defiantly side eyes Dean. 

“I know what I saw,” she says with such faith that Dean wishes he could take back the groan. He’s not trying to make fun of her, quite the opposite, but she clearly doesn’t see it that way. Sadness pulls at the corner of her mouth along with a shadow of the pain she must have felt. “I’ll never forget it, the fear when the bus tipped and then the pain. I really thought I was going to die. But then he appeared.” She directs all this at Sam, as he’s clearly the more receptive listener, so Dean only catches the edge of her expression when it brightens. “He was nothing like what I expected. He was…darker, I guess, kind of scruffy but when he touched me, he turned into this bright, beautiful light and all the pain and fear just went away.” 

“That’s amazing, Amanda,” Sam beams, and not all of that is acting, Dean notes. 

Another pang of emotion hits him hard, and he can’t help being reminded of Sam’s unwavering belief in goodness even after all these years. Castiel may not be a role model in the eyes of the other angels, but with Sam, there was always that hint of respect between them, both always striving to do right despite it turning to shit around them every time. Dean had assumed this sudden interest in finding Castiel was some misguided approach to help him, but maybe he should cut Sam a little slack. Castiel was his friend too, in the end. 

“That’s not even the weirdest part,” Amanda adds. “The guy, the angel, he was a passenger.” 

“What do you mean? He was on the bus?” 

Amanda nods. “I was visiting family in Kansas, and the only bus running back here in time for my morning shift was at midnight. When I got there, he was already waiting for the same bus, you know, same dark hair, beige coat. He sat three rows behind me the whole way. By the time the ambulances arrived, he was gone. No one else mentioned him but I couldn’t have been the only one who saw him. One of the older ladies behind me, she even spoke with him for a little while.” 

“What did they talk about?” 

They all turn to look at Dean, but he refuses to cower under the weight. He may not have meant to talk out loud but, hey, some part of him must curious enough. Amanda scans him; like she’s still not sure she trusts his apparent interest. 

“I couldn’t hear them all that well,” she admits, and if she notices the faint disappointment in Dean, she doesn’t show it. “He had this voice, though. It carried.”  
Before, Dean had kind of enjoyed the peripheral knowledge of Castiel. The fact that he hadn’t fully believed it was really him in the first place made it all the better, but now he’s picturing Cas’ lonely trek across the states, and it twists at something inside him instead. If Amanda’s story is to be believed, Castiel was in Kansas at the same time they were, and he hates the slew of questions that comes with that knowledge. 

Amanda jolts suddenly in her place next to Dean as if an electrical current has just run through the seat, and she climbs to her feet, pulling her pad from her pocket. 

“What am I doing? You guys must be starving already. I shouldn’t be wasting your time like this.” She shakes her hair out of her face and poises her pen over the paper, geared up and ready to write. Her hand trembles slightly, and she tightens her grip until it stops. 

“It’s alright, Amanda,” Sam reassures her. “It must feel good to talk about it with someone, right, and we don’t mind.” 

“Are you sure you should be working today, though, after that?” Dean glances pointedly at her hand, and she literally waves away the concern. 

“I really am fine, considering. Besides, I keep getting this feeling, like he’s still here somewhere, you know, keeping an eye on me. I’ll be fine.” Amanda takes a breath and, in a blink, her professional shell is back. “Anyway, what can I get you? I’ll even throw in a slice of pie for desert as a thank you for listening to me. On the house.” 

Dean’s still angry, but he perks up at the promise of free pie. Pie is pie, regardless of who’s offering it. His anger can wait. 

\- 

“Screw the trials, I’m just going to kill you myself, Sam.” 

The door chimes happily as it swings shut behind them, heedless of the bad air that just passed through it. 

“What? Why?” 

Night time has set in; they were in there longer than he had hoped for, and the temperature has taken a nosedive. Their breath mists in front of their faces as they talk, and they’re standing amidst the empty chairs and tables outside when Dean spins on his heel to face Sam, his expression stormy. 

“You’re kidding me, right? You lied to me, Sam. You said you were done with these bullshit files, and then you engineer this ridiculous surprise interview and you expect me to be fine with it.” 

A look of genuine surprise crosses Sam’s face, surprise over the fact that Dean has taken all this to heart, and he jams in hands into his pockets, slinking by with his shoulders hunched over. 

“I thought we agreed,” Dean continues, keeping in step, “we make this trip like regular people and we find Kevin on the way. None of this folder crap.” 

They reach the car but instead of getting in, Sam leans on the roof and drops his head onto his folded arms. The energy has been sapped from him once again, and it seems as though his little act for Amanda’s benefit has taken more out of him than he expected. Moving to the other side of the car, Dean tries not to think about how he could very well be the reason why Sam simply gives up more and more often lately. 

Sam lifts his head. Thanks to the soft glow from the diner, Dean can see the shots of red that streak his eyes. They weren’t there earlier. 

“Come on, Dean,” he growls. “This wasn’t about the folders, and you know it. This was about Cas.” 

Dean vaguely remembers having a sense of understanding about this very issue in the diner just moments ago, but it gets buried in the towering stack of emotions that is Dean’s usual go-to-thing when dealing with a certain angel. Anger is heavy and pressing, right at the top, threatening to bring the whole thing down. Although it won’t topple over yet, because the steady building block of confusion underneath it has been there for years and it isn’t going anywhere soon. Other, smaller, blocks make up the tower, such as pride, respect, fraternal love, betrayal, worry, emotions both good and bad balancing on a firm, unlabelled foundation that proves this tower will stay up for years, if not forever. 

“Which is another thing,” Dean snaps, skimming the top to come up with only anger. “What’s with this sudden interest in finding him? He left us, Sam! Why waste your time?” 

Sam isn’t reacting to his anger, and that’s so much worse than if he just shouted back. Instead, he looks sad and defeated, tilting his head at Dean like he doesn’t believe he’s facing down the guy that calls himself his brother. 

“Because it’s Cas,” he says, so simple, and, ah, there’s that building block Dean had forgotten to mention: guilt, small but needling. How could he forget that? 

The keys are cutting patterns into his palm, and he unclenches his fist to find deep red imprints in his skin. He unlocks the car and pats the roof once, twice, three times until the noise blots out the pressure of his blood in his ears. 

“Well,” he starts, and it comes out as a croak, so he clears his throat and tries again. “You can drop it now. We’re too late, he’s already moved on.” He climbs into the car, and after a deep, almost painful, sigh, Sam joins him. 

Only he pauses, half in and half out, to pat down the front of his jacket. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for in any of his pockets, and instead he turns a searching look back to the diner. 

“Give me a minute, Dean. I think I left my phone inside.” 

Dean grunts so that Sam knows he heard him, and then Sam’s off again. 

Having a moment alone, Dean takes the opportunity to wrestle back a degree of the control he lost the second Amanda approached their booth. He’s actually just as surprised as Sam that this is hitting him so hard. There’s apparently a big difference in acknowledging Castiel’s existence from afar and suddenly being forced to entertain the idea of a reunion. It’s not that he doesn’t want a reunion, because a part of him knows it’s going to happen eventually; they’re inexplicably bound together in that way, but he’s of the understanding that this is a two way street in the same way that Kevin is. 

Pining, on his side, is going to get them nowhere, and they all know how well praying worked the last time. Dean feels he’s already gone above and beyond. Going down the route Sam is heading strikes Dean as a needy reach too far, and his instincts are screaming ‘no.’ 

By the time Sam drops into the car, flourishing his phone, Dean twists some authority into his voice before he says, “How about you try using your skills to find someone who might actually want to be found? Like Kevin?” 

It’s not much of an improvement because, for all Dean knows, Kevin hates them both more than he hates Crowley at the moment but whatever gets Sam off this track is better than nothing. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Sam answers, implying the opposite; when the radio clicks on, he reaches over to turn up the volume, signalling the end of the conversation. 

Their chances of getting a room tonight are slimmer than yesterday. It’s still not exactly late, but it’s dark, and this is a small town. As he heads for the edge of the town, he wonders if he can stretch their dwindling funds into two rooms instead of one, just for tonight. 

He could do with a little space.


	3. Chapter 3

**Wednesday (Afternoon)**

 

They both need a lie in the next day. Who knew sitting cooped up in a car with someone you both love and loathe could be so draining? It’s somehow just as draining as sharing the last crummy motel room in the town with them. Even more so when neither one of you has said a word for, what, going on thirteen hours now. 

It’s already past noon when Dean thinks about getting up for a shower. He allows himself the privilege of being lazy because that’s what they’re doing here, right? Trying to be normal people? He can’t say for certain, but people did this kind of thing after a fight, surely. Stayed in bed past the point where being tired crossed over into being pathetic? 

Tension still lingers between them, but the fire, on Dean’s side at least, went out hours ago. The clock blinks twelve oh six, and he searches inside himself to find that, yes, he can probably put up with being stuck with Sam in the close quarters of the car at this time. 

His body groans in achy pain when he sits up. For a brief moment, he entertains the idea that whatever Sam has, this trial sickness, could be contagious. It would certainly explain why he feels like shit lately, despite being the least active he thinks he’s ever been in his life. He’s about to ask Sam, to open up the lines of conversation between them with a stupid joke like usual, when the chime of Sam’s phone interrupts him. 

Dean frowns. This is the third time in the past hour it’s gone off, and he watches as Sam blinks at it passively and then returns his phone to his pocket without a hint of interest. Well, screw that, Dean’s curious. 

“What made you so popular all of a sudden?” 

From the far other side of the room, Sam shrugs. “It’s nothing,” he says, returning his focus to the open laptop in front of him. “Just spam; must have gotten my number somehow.” 

Yeah, that makes sense. They throw their personal numbers out so often; anyone could have gotten a hold of it. Dean doesn’t even bother digging into Sam’s obvious lie. He doesn’t have the effort to get into another fight so soon after the last. He reaches for some clothes that are closer to clean than dirty on the cleanliness scale and pulls them on. 

“Whatever. Let’s get going. We’ve already wasted most of the day.” 

Sam’s head shoots up. “What’s the rush?” 

Dean could smile and gesture pointedly at his brother. He’s the very epitome of ‘rush’ with his wild, bloodshot eyes and twitching hands. But now, now he’s just suspicious for maybe the millionth time since they left the bunker. He gets up to approach the table, and when he circles around to peer at the laptop screen, Sam is quick to lower it shut without taking his eyes off Dean. 

“You said it yourself, it’s already noon. Why don’t we just take it easy today?” 

“The past few days have been nothing but easy, Sam. Where are you going with this?” 

Sam ignores the question, getting up from the table. He centres himself by the window and scans the world outside with a look that isn’t quite paranoia, but definitely something else. 

“How about a walk?” he suggests instead. “Some fresh air might do me good.” He reaches for another protective layer of plaid and has his hand on the door, decision made, before Dean can say anything. 

Sam has taken to moving around the room like a guy with a gunshot wound, gingerly sliding his arms into the sleeves in the worry that one wrong move will rupture something important. Couple that with the fact that, despite last night’s meal, he’s still running on empty, and you get a guy who doesn’t exactly look up for a walk. In Dean’s opinion, it’s less than a good plan of action, but he also knows that when Sam gets an idea in his head, there’s no stopping him. 

“Sure, a walk,” he says to the empty room, because Sam’s already gone. “Why not?” 

He trails after Sam and locks the door behind him. 

\- 

Unsurprisingly, they end up heading towards the park across from the diner. The sounds of children playing and laughing lead the way. Dean raises an eyebrow when he first hears them, because the last time he checked, it was still mid-week, and shouldn’t they be in school? He drops the line of thought when they get closer and he sees some of the younger kids have parents hovering worriedly over them; it must be a break or something. 

Sam’s marching along the edge of the grass a few steps ahead of Dean like he’s got something to prove, and he keeps sending furtive glances towards the direction where the noise is the loudest. Dean looks too but he doesn’t see anything that could explain why Sam has dialled himself up to eleven for what is supposedly just a walk in the park. 

Dean jogs the small distance between them, closing the gap. Just in time, too. As Dean brushes by his shoulder, Sam’s left leg turns to rubber under his weight, and Dean has to wrap his hand around his upper arm to keep him on his feet. 

“Whoa there, Sam,” Dean warns, and Sam is quick to pry his arm out of his helping grasp. “Seriously, dude. Where is the fire?” 

“It’s nothing,” Sam lies easily. “I’m waiting on a few calls about Kevin. Maybe I’m just worried?” 

Like hell he is. “This isn’t being worried,” he argues. “This is being a man on a mission.” 

When Sam tries to pull away again, face pale and so very tired, Dean drags him back and spins him around until they’re standing face to face. “Alright, I’ve let this go on too long, Sam. I don’t know what this is,” he gestures frantically between them, “but all it’s doing is killing you on your feet so let’s go back to the motel, get the car and-” 

He loses Sam here; his eyes find something over Dean’s shoulder and widen in genuine surprise. 

“Dean” he interrupts, “wow, okay, uh…don’t get angry.” 

So Dean immediately narrows his eyes. “Well now I’m definitely going to be.” 

He starts to turn to see what has Sam so worried but, all of sudden, he’s really on the ball, quickly dropping his giant paw on Dean’s shoulder to keep him rooted to the spot. He can hear little kids screaming bloody murder behind him, supposedly playing and he has no idea where this is heading. 

“Holy crap,” Sam gushes, “I can’t believe this actually worked,” and Dean guesses it can’t be all that bad if it’s got Sam smiling like that. “Okay,” he sobers whiplash fast, finally tearing his eyes away only to start grinning again when he meets Dean’s expectant face. “I did something stupid.” 

Dean snorts -what’s new there? - but keeps his suspicion up. “Forgot to lock the car stupid, or sold your soul stupid?” 

Sam tilts his head, thinking it over. “More like using the internet inappropriately stupid,” he says, and Dean’s mind jumps to a multitude of things he never before connected with his brother. Sam catches the look and frowns. “Gross, Dean, and no nothing like that.” 

Dean shrugs the hand off his shoulder, letting a hint of frustration bleed in and scowls. “Then just tell me what the hell’s going on.” He’s not really seeing the funny side here. 

Running a hand through his hair, Sam sighs. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, not the finding the words he needs, until he just waves his hand in a vague direction and says, “Just look.” 

Finally, Dean turns around. At first, he sees nothing but a park, and quite a crummy looking park at that. Sure there’s a slide, a couple of swings, and a jungle gym, but they’re all covered in graffiti and flecks of peeling paint. From what Dean can see, the kids more than outnumber the amount of things to do. He’s about to turn back and kick Sam in the shin for getting his hopes up when he finally sees him, perched on a bench, his arms wrapped around an unfamiliar backpack, not even a few metres away. 

“How…what?” and Dean doesn’t even know what his body is doing anymore. Although, he does know that he probably shouldn’t be able to feel his heartbeat in is tongue. He’s floundering, and he knows he is, but a part of him feels as though he’s got the right because, hell, Cas is right there. He can see Sam, still soppily grinning, out of the corner of his eye, and it grounds him once again. “How did you know he’d be here?” 

“Dumb luck,” Sam laughs. 

And that makes no sense to Dean, because the last time he and Castiel were in the same room, he was on his knees, choking on his own blood, and now… Now, he’s sitting on a park bench, on a warm afternoon, and they’re surrounded by children. 

Sam must sense the whirlwind going on in Dean’s head, because he lowers his voice and throws him a bone. “When I ran back into the diner last night, it wasn’t to get my phone. I exchanged numbers with Amanda, just in case. She did say she felt ‘the angel’ was still nearby, so I took a shot.” He pauses to grin but, to Dean, this is far from funny. “She called me this morning, close to tears. Apparently, she had just had a very pleasant conversation with him.” 

Sam chuckles warmly, but Dean’s still having trouble piecing all this together. 

“I don’t-” 

“Look,” Sam calmly interrupts again, “we can discuss this later, Dean, after you’ve talked to him.” 

Dean’s mouth runs dry. “Me? What about you?” 

“I’ll be over in a minute. Just talk to him.” Sam nudges him in the back, probably thinking he’s being helpful, the little shit. “And don’t say anything stupid,” he adds. 

Dean snorts. “I never say stupid things,” and then, somehow, he’s moving, taking a halting step forward. 

His feet keep moving, but in reality, Dean’s bricking it. His mind is running on a loop of ‘don’t be an idiot, don’t be an idiot.’ But what if he is? What if he says something wrong, and Castiel flutters off again? What if he leaves and Dean doesn’t see him again for months? What if? 

A kid wearing a red baseball cap almost trips him up because he’s only got eyes for that bench, but the boy soon breezes past without serious incident, and then Dean’s close enough that he could reach out and settle his hand on the curve of Castiel’s shoulder. 

He doesn’t. 

He circles the bench then stops, just looking Castiel over. He looks the same; same damn coat, same messy hair, same rasp of stubble, and although he’s the one approaching, Dean jumps in surprise when the same blue eyes flicker over and fix on him. 

“Dean,” Castiel says in an exhale and, fuck, Dean’s missed this. 

There’s not a separate bench for him to sit on this time so, and he’ll kick himself later for this when it all goes wrong, he gently takes a seat next to Castiel and rests his balled-up fists on his knees. 

Castiel doesn’t seem all that surprised to see him,and Dean wonders just how sad he’s gotten, how predictable, how weak he is, that Castiel must have already assumed he’d be searching for him. He should feel embarrassed, but he doesn’t; he’s just too goddamn relieved. 

The sun is glaring in his face, and Dean can only faintly make out a small smile on Castiel’s lips as he surveys the park. He quickly glances over his shoulder, but Sam has already disappeared, which means all this is on him and him alone. 

“You know,” Deans starts, turning to face the park, “the moms over there have probably got you pegged as a child snatcher, dressed like that.” And, seriously, what the hell is wrong with him? Why can’t he just have a normal conversation for once? He clears his throat and tries again, glaring at his hands. “Cas…where the hell have you been, man?” 

There’s a pause, possibly the longest in Dean’s life, until Castiel softly answers, “Everywhere,” and his smile spreads until it appears almost reverent. 

And while Dean smiles back, he knows that’s not true, because he still doesn’t know if that sigil he carved into the bunker door was a waste of time or not. He still doesn’t know if angels can even pass over the threshold, or if it’s just the one that matters. No, Cas hasn’t been everywhere, because he still hasn’t come home. 

“That’s kind of weird,” Dean muses out loud, “because that’s exactly what me and Sam have been doing.” He nods and wills his hands to unclench. They’re kind of sweaty in this direct heat, and he wipes them down his jeans. “We’ve been driving; seeing things, going places, you know, taking a break.” 

“That sounds nice, Dean.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” Dean says, only vaguely lying, but it could be so much better. 

He turns on the bench and angles himself towards Castiel. It shouldn’t be this hard. He’s managed it before, to say what he really wants to say. Except, a small part of him, a niggling voice in the back of his head- he knows to be his burgeoning self-loathing- keeps reminding him that it’s never made a difference before, so why should it now? He takes in the way Castiel’s arms are circled protectively around that backpack, and, surprise surprise, he chickens out. 

“So, what’s in the bag?” he asks, avoiding the urge to give his best Brad Pitt impression, and, for a brief, frightening second, Dean thinks he’s blown it anyway, because Cas’ arms tighten and a haunted look sparks in his eyes. It quickly slides away, but Dean can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s toeing at some kind of edge. 

“They’re things…things I’ve collected,” Castiel says haltingly, like he’s almost ashamed he’s doing something so human. He grips the material in his hands and then seems to come to a determined decision. He shifts on the bench, away from him, Dean notices, but he then fills the gap by dropping the backpack between them. The zip shrieks as he opens it, and Dean stares, wide eyed, while Castiel starts pulling out random objects. 

Some of the objects strike Dean as odd, such as an old splintering pinecone and a handful of pebbles, but then Castiel pulls out a wad of bright coloured paper that he sets down on Dean’s knee so that he can retrieve what looks like a yellowed library book from the very bottom on the bag, and Dean sort of gets it. 

The book is a cheap dime store detective’s novel. Under Cas’ thumb, Dean can see a clichéd guy dressed in a fedora and a beige trench coat peering out of a shadowy alleyway. He’s got some serious stubble going on, and the pages are dog-eared and worn. 

“It’s silly, I know,” Castiel continues, carefully placing each object down in its own deliberate spot. “I didn’t plan it but I’d pick things up here and there and a collection soon grew.” 

Dean ducks his head and allows a genuine smile. He carefully picks up the papers balanced on his knee, and he realises he’s probably seen them all a hundred times before, lined up in stacks at every motel lobby he’s ever been to. A lump forms in his throat as he shuffles through the various leaflets and tourist trap advertisements, because nestled between them he spots one labelled ‘The Winchester House’ and he can’t help but find it kind of endearing. The rest span an impressive number of states, from national parks in California to a farmer’s market in a small Illinois town, and Dean immediately thinks of Sam. 

“Damn, Cas, you’ve been around,” he says, and Castiel nods proudly. 

“Though not as much as I’d like,” he admits. “Bus travel certainly has its advantages; I’ve met some truly interesting people with amazing stories to tell, but a bus can only get you so far.” 

The brief glimpse he got of the totalled bus on Sam’s laptop flashes through his mind. It brings with it a burst of protective feelings he usually only gets around Sam, but all he has to do is look over to see Castiel sitting straight-backed beside him, and the worry melts away. The guy’s a warrior, not a helpless kid who can pout his way into getting the last scraps of cereal; he knows this. Except, he can’t help but find the idea of Castiel traveling across America on a bus, talking to anyone who will listen, both heart-warmingly pleasant and enough to make Dean want to stand, find Sam, and just leave. It turns out Cas is more than fine on his own, and what can Dean possibly bring to that other than more death, brainwashing and pain? 

He hands the stack back to Castiel, making sure the brief flash of ‘Winchester’ gets buried under the rest, and rises to his feet. For the first time, Castiel looks faintly startled. He stares up at Dean, like a worried animal, while he mechanically replaces his collection safely away. 

“Where are you going?” he asks, and his eyes dart between Dean and the children still playing behind him, weighing up the choice whether to stand or stay where he is. 

Dean doesn’t want him to get up. He’s not sure he could do this, rip this Band-Aid off in one clean sweep, if Cas’ shoulder was pressed against his. He points his thumb in some vague direction behind him, and says, “Sam’s ran off somewhere. I should probably find him.” To make sure he hasn’t keeled over and died, but he doesn’t say that; he instead holds his hand out to Castiel. 

There’s another painful pause when Castiel just stares at it, perplexed, but then, very slowly, he slides his hand into Dean’s. They don’t shake; they just press their hands together. 

“Be safe, Cas.” Dean pulls his hand away. “I’ll you see around.” 

It takes everything he has and more to turn around and walk, to put one foot in front of the other. At no point does Castiel call him back, so Dean doesn’t bother to look back, either. By the time grass turns into stone under his boots, he feels he’s far enough away to drop the tension from his body. 

It only just occurs to him in that moment that he didn’t once mention the angel tablet. Castiel clearly didn’t have it on him, and it wasn’t stashed in his backpack either. He takes another step and tells himself that Kevin had the right idea all along; Castiel is so much better off without them. The best thing Dean can do for him is to stay clear away. So he keeps walking. 

\- 

It turns out Sam didn’t go very far when he abandoned Dean into some newly discovered nightmare, because it only takes him a couple of minutes to make it back to the motel, and Dean can see him through the window of the Impala, his head tilted back and no doubt snoring. By all rights, he should go over there and tear open the door he’s leaning against. The only reason he doesn’t is because this is the first time Dean’s seen him sleeping peacefully in days. So Dean tries to be quiet instead, but even the rumble of the engine proves too loud, and Sam stirs, blinking one eye open to find Dean trying not to scowl next to him. 

Sam yawns, gives Dean a once over, then turns to look in the back seat. Dean does his best to ignore him. 

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asks, in a way he’s clearly hoping is casual. What he doesn’t know is that Dean’s already figured out what all this is about. Sam’s not as sly as he likes to think he is. 

“Cas? The guy’s probably crossing the state line by now.” 

Sam’s face scrunches up in confusion, sleep still partially slowing him down. He checks his watch, and Dean can practically see the numbers running through his head. “What?” 

“Yeah,” Dean explains, “he’s on this bus tour of America thing. Looks fun, seeing the world. He seems to be enjoying it at least.” 

Dean can feel Sam glaring holes into the side of his head, but the joke’s on Sam, because he learned how to ignore that kid long ago. It’s not until he starts to pull out of the motel that Sam bursts into motion. 

“Jesus, Dean, I gave you one job,” he complains, and then before Dean can stop him, he’s opening the door and climbing out of the car as it rolls away from the curb. 

“Damn it, Sam. Did Stanford not teach you anything? You never jump out of a moving car, unless we’re in a high speed chase and I give you the signal.” 

They’re far from a high speed chase, and Sam continues to glare at him through the open door as he walks alongside the car’s slow crawl. 

“Go back and talk to him, Dean,” he says, and he’s doing it again; he’s mistaking whatever he and Cas have between them as something easy, which it really isn’t. 

Someone abuses their horn behind them, loud and angry, and Dean has half a mind to remind whoever it is that this town is so small that they’re actually in a school zone, calm the fuck down, but at the moment he’s more worried about the way Sam’s face has dissolved into this unflinching, determined expression. 

Dean sighs, and the wheel creaks under his hands. 

“Get back in the car, Sam.” 

“Not until you talk to him.” 

“I did-” 

There’s another sudden blare of a horn, but this time it’s not the impatient guy behind them. Dean lifts his clenched fist from the wheel, surprising even himself, and lets out the breath he’s holding. Sam’s looking down at him with something close to pity, which only makes him deflate even more, because he really doesn’t deserve that look; he’s not the crazy guy walking a car down the street. 

Defeated and glowing with embarrassment, Dean rolls into one of the parking spaces lining the park. The car stuck behind them speeds past, equipped with a hand gesture that’s equally inappropriate for a school zone, and swiftly disappears. Dean wills a ticket on the asshole and climbs out of the car. 

Sam’s leaning on the roof, and Dean mirrors his position. 

“Did he tell you to go?” Sam asks, and shit, Dean thinks, they’re really going to do this in the middle of the street. 

“Not exactly,” he admits. 

“Well, did he seem happy to see you, at least?” 

Dean scoffs. “No more than usual.” 

“So let me get this straight,” Sam starts, stretching his hand out flat across the metal. “You went over there, said hey, Cas showed you his ‘Bus Rider of America’ card, and then you left. Is that right?” 

“In a nutshell,” Dean grunts, and Sam’s answering scowl is fiercer than he’s seen in a long while. 

“Dean, I told you not to be an idiot,” Sam says, and Dean holds up a hand in his own defence. 

“No, you said not to say anything stupid,” he corrects, which technically he also failed at; he did imply Cas was a paedophile, but he keeps that to himself. 

“What the hell are you doing, Dean?” Sam sighs, and although the tone of the discussion had started almost playfully, Sam bleeds desperation at this point, physically sagging under the combined weight of their misfortunes in life. “You sit around and mope every time he disappears; don’t think that I don’t notice,” Dean has to look away here because it cuts a little too close to the bone, “but now that he’s right here, you run away. What do you want?” 

Dean swallows around the uncomfortable tightness in his throat and shakes his head along wordlessly. Of course he knows all this; it hits like a punch coming from Sam as opposed to the untrustworthy voice in the back of his head, but he’s been over all this again and again. What the hell does he want? 

“I’m being serious here, Dean. I’m genuinely asking. What do you want? Because if we leave now and somewhere down the road you find yourself wishing you’d talked to him, it’s going to be too late.” He seeks out Dean’s gaze imploringly. “Just tell me.” 

Now, Dean’s definitely on the edge of something; a Grand Canyon-sized cliff face with his feet half on, half off. The wind’s not warm up here; in fact it’s kind of chilling and threatening to push him off every passing second, but he’s supposed to take this leap, right? That’s the way this works. 

“I don’t know, Sam,” he shrugs at last, and Sam rolls his eyes, pulling away, but Dean’s not done yet. He leans over the car’s roof and grasps at the air between them, trying to explain the only thing he does know. “I guess I want him to want to come with us, you know? I just want it to be his choice.” 

Sam nods, and it’s not condescending or laced with some kind of smug, knowing humour, and maybe this isn’t so bad, actually saying what’s on his mind. 

“Well, have you ever asked him?” Sam asks, gentle and, hell, why should they stop ‘feelings time’ now? 

Dean’s all too aware that there are people passing them by, families with kids just enjoying the nice weather, and he knows they’re not paying any attention to him, but he swears he can feel their eyes on him anyway. 

“What if he says no?” 

“Then you’ll know,” Sam offers easily with a grim smile, and that hurts so much more. 

In a finite gesture, Sam pushes away from the car and, with his long legs, he’s already cutting a path through the park. Dean has to jog to catch up. 

“It doesn’t really matter anyway. The guy’s probably long gone by now,” Dean mutters at the ground by his feet. 

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Sam says, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice. He looks up from the grass and, yep, he’s still there, on that bench, hunched over his backpack in a position that screams defeat. Dammit, Cas, he should have ran while he had the chance. 

Sam powers towards the bench, and the back of his shirt slips uselessly through Dean’s fingers when he tries to stop him. He hangs back to watch and secretly delights at the way Castiel brightens upon seeing Sam. 

“Good, you’re still here,” he says, and Castiel immediately stands, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. 

“Sam,” Castiel greets, smiling, only to pause and really look him over, “you’re…not looking well.” 

Dean snorts and regrets it straight after when Castiel twists to seek him out. He’s sure he’s imagining the relief that melts his expression because he really doesn’t deserve such unreserved feeling, not from anybody. 

Sam carelessly lifts one shoulder and drops it again in a vague attempt at a shrug. “I’ve been better,” he says, like this is just another case of the sniffles or something, and Dean has to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from saying the opposite. 

Castiel narrows his eyes; he doesn’t quite believe Sam’s nonchalance either. The strap under his hands gets twisted into rope, and Dean unfortunately recognises the guilt he’s swallowing down before he steals Sam’ gaze and speaks through gritted teeth, “If I could help you, Sam, I would. But as of late…” He tilts his head and trails off while Sam waves away the words. 

“No, I get it. I’m beyond saving. Besides, you shouldn’t use your powers anyway.” 

Sam then sends Castiel a look that is so pointed that Cas actually seems taken aback, eyes widening slightly. In the distance, a little girl trips and skins her knee; her cries are enough to distract him, and he tears his eyes away to instead stare off after the sound. 

“Yes, well, that’s very true.” 

Dean flits back and forth between the two, cataloguing Sam’s almost smug expression and Cas’ impression of a kicked puppy, and thinks, what the fuck? 

“Alright, back up you two.” Dean grimaces, and they both turn to him. “What the hell are you talking about? What’s wrong with you now?” 

He directs the question at Castiel, and gets a sudden flash of his blank face towering above him. An angel blade, long, sharp and just as adept at killing humans as angels, rises into the air, but Dean doesn’t find as much threat in it as he does from the glazed sheen covering Castiel’s eyes. It’s something of a relief that this Cas’ eyes fill with anger now, and because of it Dean can’t quite bring himself to be ashamed at his bluntness in asking. 

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Castiel says, and there’s so much wrong with that Dean doesn’t even know where to start. He only wonders which one of them he’s trying to convince the most. “My power is not gone,” he adds, “I’m just choosing not to use it.” 

“Why?” 

Castiel exhales into the air above him and lets his arms drop to hang by his sides. “I’ve found it’s counterproductive to announce to your position when you’re trying keep off the radar.” 

Of course, Dean remembers. Castiel isn’t just avoiding him and Sam; he’s more importantly on the run from Heaven’s all-seeing eye. The last thing he needs now is to join up with the Winchesters, the only things arguably higher up on Heaven and Hell’s hit lists. 

“So you’re not just hanging out on buses for the fun,” Dean jokes before he can stop himself, earning a small smile from Castiel. 

“As I said, the novelty soon wears off.” 

Sam stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks on the balls of his feet. Dean can virtually see the next words forming in his head and hates the fact that they’re definitely too old for Dean to clamp a hand over his mouth. 

“You should come with us,” Sam offers, and there it is, the words are out there, ready for Cas to smack them down. 

Only, Cas doesn’t. 

He lowers his eyes from the heavens and almost shyly meets Dean’s gaze. 

“I would rather be here,” he says, soft and close to lyrical, and it elicits a spark of déjà vu in Dean that isn’t entirely unwelcome. 

He finds himself smiling and, as much as that bothersome voice in the back of his head is warning him not to, he knows he can’t send Castiel away. Not twice in one day. Not when he’s just got him back. 

“If you want…” Dean shrugs. “You can tag along.” 

Castiel hitches his backpack more securely over his shoulder, and there are about a million reasons why he should say no. It even looks like he’s considering several of them as he runs his eyes over the pair of them. But Castiel does what he does best; he fights the system and murmurs a quiet, “Thank you.” 

And everything is beyond awkward. 

“Great,” Sam buts in, and it’s like a verbal clap of his hands, sharp and distracting. He spins on his heels and starts the short walk back to the car, leaving Castiel to walk with Dean, most likely on purpose. 

\- 

Sam’s definitely in full ‘unseen master of the universe’ mode, because when they reach the car, he makes a huge sweeping gesture, offering Castiel the front seat while he goes to check them out. Castiel spares Dean one wide-eyed glance before he jumps on the offer, probably afraid that Sam’s going to take it back just as quick. 

And that’s how Dean finds himself awkwardly clearing his throat, having just been caught watching Castiel out of the corner of his eye for maybe the sixth time, still not convinced that he’s really there, while Sam unashamedly snores in the back seat. 

A particularly loud snore distracts Dean so much that he sends a glare over his shoulder. He frowns, but reaches over to lower the volume on the radio. He could use the noise to drown him out, but honestly, he’s more worried about waking him up. He feels Castiel’s eyes follow the path of his hand even as it returns to the wheel, and Dean gulps audibly. 

When he dares glance over again, Castiel isn’t sitting wooden in the passenger seat. In fact, he’s as relaxed as Dean’s ever seen him. His expression is close to serene, as if this is right where he wants to be. Dean struggles to accept that, while also understanding the feeling with every fibre of his being. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this stretched in two different directions before. 

He clears his throat, opens his mouth and then thinks better of it. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s still enough for Castiel to look over expectantly. 

“You know,” Dean says, “you could have put that in the trunk. Sam wasn’t going to steal your seat.” 

He’s referring to the backpack that Castiel still has on his lap, and he sees him carefully lift and drop his shoulder as his arms remain wrapped around it. “It’s okay here. I don’t mind.” 

While he doesn’t mean anything by it, Dean still can’t help but see it as a sign. The fact that he wants to keep his belongings within reach speaks volumes. Throughout Cas’ time alone, that bag has become something of a tangible home to him, and if he doesn’t trust them enough to leave it in the car, Dean’s home, then there’s already a canyon of distance between them. 

Right now, he wants nothing more than to close that distance between them, and the only way to do that is with baby steps. 

“You’re probably going to need a bigger bag by the time we reach the Grand Canyon,” Dean tries, “the amount of tourist crap we’ll pass on the way; it’s going to blow your mind.” 

Castiel’s answering smile is another couple of steps in closing that gap. “Is that where we’re headed?” he asks. “The Grand Canyon?” 

“As stupid as it sounds, we’ve never been.” He catches a flash of Sam’s sleeping face in the rear view mirror and nods. He always thought the idea of this trip was beyond them, but with the three of them together like this, it might just be possible. 

“Me neither,” Castiel adds after a beat, and that’s another step right there. 

Creedence continues to play on the radio at a low, barely there, hum, and the miles between them and the Grand Canyon rapidly shrinks as well. Baby steps, Dean reminds himself, baby steps. 

-

**Wednesday (Night)**

 

The walls in the next motel room are yellow. Very yellow. Along with the bed linens and the small kitchen countertop, it feels to Dean as though they’ve walked into a larger than life banana. Despite his initial misgivings, he can see what they were going for; brighten up the room to try and make people forget the fact that staying in a place like this usually meant you were either dangerously low on funds or having difficulties with the significant other. Except, both reasons meant not even this particularly cheerful shade of yellow could lift your spirits. Nevertheless, he could appreciate the effort. 

Sam actually shields his eyes with a groan when he shuffles in, and Dean takes the duffle bag out of his hands without a word so that he can take a moment to better adjust to his new blinding surroundings. 

“This might be, hands down, the worst place we’ve ever stopped,” he vows, squinting out behind his hands. 

“It’s certainly yellow,” Castiel adds unnecessarily, peering around Sam’s shoulder, and Dean corrals them away from the door so he can shut it behind them. 

“It was cheap, so stop complaining. Both of you.” 

Dean drops their bags on their respective beds and simply watches as the other two bodies adapt to this new routine of three people instead of two. 

Sam flops onto his bed, uncaring, his eyes slipping shut in exhaustion, and it’s one of the things Dean’s been picking up on all afternoon. Sam still seems tired, but it’s not the bone-deep kind that has been plaguing him since the trials. Ever since Castiel has been close enough to reach out and touch, Sam’s exhaustion has taken on a more deserved flavour, like a weight has been lifted off of him. Like reuniting with Castiel was as high on his bucket list as this trip to the Grand Canyon, and now he is resigned to whatever fate has been chosen for him. 

Castiel, on the other hand, loiters around the door with his hands curled protectively around the strap of his backpack. Dean lets him breathe for a second and then lobs the TV remote at him with a quick heads up. Castiel catches it one handed, smiling briefly. He then leaves his bag behind on the floor by the window and instead moves to perch on the foot of Dean’s bed, where he switches on the TV and aimlessly cycles through the channels. 

Warmth floods Dean. It’s stupid but he feels more put together than he’s felt in a long time and it’s a good feeling. He could certainly get used to it. 

“I’m starving,” Sam announces to the room, but his face is mostly smothered by his pillow, so it loses a lot of the vowel sounds in the process. His stomach growls as well, though, reinforcing his words, and as he rolls onto his back, Dean grabs the motel key. 

The rattle brings Sam to his feet. On shaky legs, he intercepts Dean on his way to the door. 

“Don’t worry, I can get us something.” He fishes the keys out of Dean’s hand and tips his head in Cas’ direction. “You can stay here and…talk.” 

His brother’s a meddling idiot; Dean already knows this, but at the moment, he’s a meddling idiot who looks ready to drop. He runs an assessing look over him, cataloguing all the various things that make Sam look like a cancer patient, and sighs. “Are you sure, Sam? You’re looking a little…delicate.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. I’ll be back before you know it.” 

And then he’s gone with a final muttered, “Talk.” 

Well, shit. He needs to remember to have a long talk with Sam over what is acceptable meddling and what is just annoying. 

Now alone, Dean manages to go two whole minutes without glancing over at Castiel, and, when he inevitably does, he finds him staring blankly through the television screen. An infomercial, selling God knows what, is playing to itself, and Castiel is idly picking at his hands while he his gaze focuses on nothing. 

The pieces haven’t all slotted together yet in Dean’s head, and a big part of him still doesn’t believe Castiel is right here with him. While motel rooms have long since lost their usual connotations for the Winchesters - in a way, they’re something of a reluctant home away from home - but he’s still ashamed to feel the tell-tale slick of sweat on his hands. Regardless of the sickening shade of the walls or the cheaply carpeted floors, motel rooms have always meant down time for Dean, and down time, more often than not, leads to talking. 

Fine, Dean thinks. If Sam wants them to talk, who is he to deny a dying man’s wishes? 

He moves to stand in front of the television, and Castiel neither blinks nor even acknowledges that something has blocked his view. The remote slips easily from his fingers when Dean reaches for it. 

“Cas?” 

Just like that, Castiel jolts out of his reverie. His eyes lock onto Dean’s, showing only mild surprise to find him so close but panic over something else. 

“Sorry,” Castiel apologises, and it’s like a reflex. He twists away from the bed and ends up standing, lost, in the space between both beds. 

Dean holds up his palms. “What you apologising for? You zoned out, so what? It happens to the best of us.” 

His awful attempt at levity fails to calm Castiel and, despite his earlier claim that the use of his powers was prohibited, he looks ready to blink out on the spot. That’s the last thing Dean wants right now. He closes the gap between them - screw baby steps - and pinches the arm of the trench coat in his fingers. If Castiel wants to flutter away, he’ll have to take Dean along. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” Castiel explains in a rush. 

“What? Watching crappy television?” 

“Yes,” Castiel breathes in answer. “I shouldn’t even be here.” 

“Whoa, dude,” Dean says, placating. “Just take a breath.” 

He tries not to think about how loose limbed Cas becomes the moment he weakly tethers them together, or the way he does exactly what Dean instructs, breathing deeply, and only uses the knowledge to get him to sit back down with enough room for him settle down next to him, elbows rubbing. 

“Let’s take a couple steps back here. Tell me what the problem is.” 

Castiel’s expression is fierce when he turns to Dean, and he is forcibly reminded that Castiel is a lot more than his oversized coat implies. 

“I decimated Heaven, Dean. I should not be here, with you, watching mindless television.” 

Another unwelcome flash of déjà vu hits Dean, and he pictures a similar scene from not too long ago, of Castiel, hunched over himself, describing to Dean the fear and self-doubt he felt over his role in Heaven’s downfall. The admission of ‘I’m afraid I’ll kill myself’ rang loud and clear in his ears then, and hasn’t exactly stopped since, even to this day. Something is different now, though, as the angel looking back at him now is not a mess of guilt and loathing, but something more assembled. He’s just as sad, only now there’s drive and purpose behind it, like the face of a man ready to take the plunge. 

It scares Dean to see it looking back at him. He takes a shaky breath. 

“Do you even know how we found you?” he asks delicately, and it’s enough of a change in subject that curiosity is briefly visible under all that inward rage. “We ran into Amanda last night, me and Sam, and she told us how, just that morning, she’d survived this horrific bus crash.” 

Something flickers in Castiel, and Dean gets a hint of that anger directed at him, signalling that bringing this up is kind of a low blow. 

“You remember Amanda, right?” he continues, knowing full well he’s pushing at his limits. 

“Of course I do,” Castiel growls. 

“Well,” Dean drawls, “she remembers you too. She remembers you saving her life along with every other passenger on that bus.” 

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s nowhere near enough to make up for what I did.” 

“But it’s a start, right? I thought that was your plan, to make amends, right some wrongs. You’re making progress, Cas, and you can’t do that if you’re dead.” 

The heat simmers away and is replaced by a numb look of defeat. “I don’t think I can ever make up for it,” he admits and Dean has to fight back the urge to groan and throw his hands into the air. 

He’s the last person who should be arguing the merits of self-worth, because he doesn’t know the first thing about it, but he’s trying, and that should account for something. 

They share a tense silence while Castiel stews and Dean struggles to think of anything that might convince him to rethink things. He’s stuck on Amanda and the fact that something doesn’t quite add up there when a connection sparks. 

“Why did she remember you?” None of the other passengers could recall Castiel as clearly as Amanda; in events like these, with Castiel on the run, it only makes sense to erase the existence of angels from her mind. Only, Amanda remembers everything. In detail. “You let her remember, didn’t you?” 

Castiel stays quiet, and that’s answer enough for Dean. 

“I thought they would have come after her whether she knew anything or not,” Castiel explains after a shuddering breath. “I stayed to watch over her in case but no one came. Wiping her memory of me would have been the logical thing to do but, when I spoke to her… Dean, the love and pure belief in that woman... I just couldn’t do it.” Castiel sighs with such gravity that Dean feels he’s being pulled into his orbit, and he leans just that bit closer. Castiel continues, but bitterness now taints his voice. “She didn’t see me as the monster I know myself to be and…I guess all I did was further prove my disgrace because… I was hungry for it.” 

He hangs his head in shame, and Dean wades through the sheer mass of words in his head. He can’t make a mistake here, can’t say the wrong thing. Not now. 

“Look, Cas. I spoke to her too, and she’s better off knowing, believe me. So what, if it made you feel good too. What’s wrong with that?” Castiel looks up at him and, this close, his eyes are huge and hopeful. “Screw the plan, you saved those people because you had the power to and it was the right thing to do. You’re allowed to feel good about it.” 

“Angels weren’t built to feel pride like this. Especially not me.” 

“You’re not like most angels.” 

They’re sitting so very close and, any second now, Sam’s going to come stumbling through the door, food in hand, to stop them. Dean mentally counts it down. Three, two, one. Only, when he reaches zero, Sam is nowhere to be found, and instead of pulling away, guilty, he’s pressing closer still until his mouth gently brushes Cas’ lower lip. 

No one bursts in to shock them apart, and Castiel doesn’t freeze from the light touch, so Dean takes that as permission and seals their mouths together with more purpose. He’s reminded of their handshake earlier; there’s just simple comforting pressure from them both, and it’s nice. Not mind-blowing, but still everything Dean had secretly hoped for. 

Castiel is the first to move, and it’s not to pull away. His hand finds the back of Dean’s neck and he makes a fist around the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. With the same finesse of a breaking dam, the gentle kiss quickly shifts gear to become a frenzied attack, and Dean can only cling to the weathered folds of the trench coat while Castiel gets all this pent up energy out of his system. 

It’s wet and messy, and Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it, but the feeling behind it is all wrong. He breathes Cas’ name against the onslaught of lips, and it earns him a small, sharp bite in return as Castiel doesn’t seem to be slowing down. In the end, Dean has to push him away with a hand held flat on his chest. 

The moment the connection breaks, he can actually feel the panic starting to bleed into Cas’ body, and Dean has to play this moment right as well because it’s just as important as all the others before it, if not more so. 

Cas’ eyes are wide as he attempts to draw back, but Dean doesn’t let him get too far. With his grip on the coat, he keeps their foreheads pressed together, and their harsh breathing faintly tickles as it’s trapped between them. 

“I’m doing it again,” Castiel gasps, and his voice is wrecked. “I’m being selfish.” 

He says it like the very idea of being similar to every human being on the planet, ever, is in the same vein as murder. And the sheer feeling of wrong there makes Dean’s insides twist until he’s sort of nuzzling against Castiel’s forehead. 

“Come on, Cas,” he pleads. “Stop. You’re allowed to want this too.” 

“I don’t deserve this.” 

Dean kisses him quickly, but with conviction. “There’s already too much self-loathing in this room without you adding to it,” he jokes. 

Castiel shakes his head and it’s really not the time, but Dean notes that his hair is soft. 

“I’m being serious, Dean.” 

“So am I.” 

He bunches the front of Dean’s shirt in his fists and just strains the material while he grits his teeth. “It feels like there’s a knife in my stomach most of the time, but when you found me in that park, when you’re here, like this,” he captures Dean’s mouth again with the same fire as before, and Dean gives back as much as he can until Castiel pulls away, “it’s not so bad.” 

“Okay, we can work with that.” 

Castiel’s hands vibrate against his chest like he’s just not getting it. His voice is deceptively flat when he adds, “I don’t want the feeling to go away, Dean. It’s my penance.” 

It’s Dean’s turn to be wide eyed with disbelief, and he peels himself away far enough that he can make out Castiel’s whole face and not just his downcast eyes. 

“How can you have such a low opinion of yourself? Things might not have always turned out like you expected they would, but everything you’ve ever done, Cas, has been with good intentions. I haven’t always agreed with you, but you can’t deny that you’re inherently good. I know that. Sam knows that. Even Amanda knows that.” 

Castiel meets his eye by the end of the breath. Dean doesn’t dare untangle them, because he still isn’t sure whether Castiel will be gone the moment he does. 

“Do you remember what I said in that crypt?” At this distance, Dean can see Castiel swallow, and he watches his throat bob up and down before saying anything else. “I meant it. I need you.” He then tips his face close again and, while he is still none the wiser in how angels are actually built, he does wonder how they are meant to deal with temptations, because Castiel meets him without hesitation. 

When Castiel tries to vamp it up this time, Dean finds a different part of the body in front of him to run his fingers along; his neck, his thigh, the back of his hand, until he finally gets it and surrenders, letting Dean share in some of the control. 

It’s all going so well until someone moans, and Sam chooses that moment to push open the motel room door. 

“We’re in luck,” he crows, completely oblivious, “there was a – oh.” 

For once, he’s too late, and they are way too close and breathless to talk their way out of it, so Dean stays where he is. With the way Sam has been manipulating everything lately, he can’t be all that surprised this is where it’s led them. 

“We’re kind of busy here, Sam,” he says and, damn, his voice actually croaks.

Sam’s lips twitch into a semblance of a smile and he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave. “Yeah, I can see that,” he says, and he’s such a dork; he’s actually happy for them. 

Castiel grasps Dean’s hands where they’re attached to his coat and stands, letting the fabric slide out of his reach. Dean’s doesn’t fumble after it, only because Sam is standing right there, but he wants to. 

“I need to go.” 

“Cas -” 

He surprises them all by carefully bracketing Dean’s head between his hands and dropping an affectionate kiss onto his forehead before they separate completely. There’s no shame behind the action - and why should there be? - so Dean doesn’t feel the flair of embarrassment he thought he would. 

“I’ll be back,” he assures them. “I’m not running away.” 

Dean nods, not trusting his voice. Castiel heads for the door and when he passes Sam, he reaches up for his shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze. He then shuts the door with a soft, “Enjoy your food,” and Dean is left alone with Sam’s widening smug grin. 

“What?” Dean snaps from his seat on the bed. He’d stand up but Sam’s knowing face and little glance down keep him seated. 

Sam holds the food aloft like a prize, and it smells to Dean a lot like Chinese. “I did say ‘talk to him’ when I left, right? And not ‘jump him’? Because now, I’m not so sure.” 

Dean snorts, but gravitates towards the aroma all the same. “If anything, he jumped me,” he mutters under his breath as he reaches for a container, but he’s not quite quiet enough, because Sam makes a noise halfway between a laugh and hiccup. 

“Dude, it’s all good.” He retrieves his own container and they sit opposite each other at the table. “Really, Dean, I’m happy for you.” 

He basks in the genuine flood of good will, if only for a second, because how often do they get the opportunity? Then he reaches for the closest thing to hand and throws it at Sam. It bounces off his shoulder, the same shoulder Castiel had squeezed, and when it rolls across the floor, Dean sees it’s a fortune cookie. He bets the fortune didn’t see that coming. 

Sam’s really laughing at him now, and they eat their food with a comforting rumble of small talk. It goes nowhere, and that’s the point. 

By the time the food is all gone, Sam’s rubbing his eyes every couple seconds and Dean keeps sending secretive glances at the door. 

“He’ll come back,” Sam says, and it’s meant to sound reassuring, but his yawn dampens the effect. 

Dean grunts, nodding his head towards the window where Castiel’s backpack rests on the floor. “He better; he left all his crap behind.” 

Sam mixes another yawn with a laugh and finishes it all off with a back-breaking stretch and a pained groan, saying, “All right, I can’t look at this wallpaper anymore. I’m going to sleep.” 

Dean would go too, but the way they’ve both been sleeping lately, he isn’t certain a knock at the door would wake him, and he’d hate for Castiel to be stuck outside all night. Plus, he’s pretty sure it’s only now just hitting him, how everything has changed thanks to what happened tonight, and he feels slightly wired. He wonders if his world view should be more off-kilter than it is but, as Sam keeps telling him, this has been a long time coming and mostly he feels relieved. He putters around the room, hearing Sam start to snore after only a few minutes, and sets about cleaning up the mess they made. 

He kicks something, and when he crouches down he finds the fortune cookie. They always throw a couple in with the meal. He tosses it into the air a few times, and Sam’s already asleep, so there’s no one around to see him slip the cookie into Castiel’s bag. He doubts he’ll notice it with all the junk in there, but it would just go to waste otherwise. 

He then retreats to his bed, intending to give Castiel an hour to meditate or whatever he does to screw his head back on right, and then he’s going to sleep. Just an hour.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thursday (Morning)**

 

Castiel isn’t back by morning, and Sam rightfully keeps his comments to himself. They go about their morning routines like usual, and they’re out long before the ten AM check out. 

Out on the court, Sam disappears to return the key and Dean’s hefting Castiel’s sizable backpack into the car when he hears a set of footsteps behind him. He braces his hands on the open trunk, spent with relief, and simply waits for Castiel to sidle up to his elbow. He can always count on Castiel to disregard this personal space business, and for once he actually welcomes it. 

Together, they stare down at the backpack; it doesn’t look all that out of place next to their beat-up duffle bags. 

“I didn’t know if you’d be back,” Dean shrugs. “I figured if you wanted this back you’d have to track us down instead.” 

Castiel nods. “That sounds fair.” 

“Should I take it out, or are you sticking with us?” 

“I’m here for as long as you’ll have me.” 

Dean’s always been a tactile guy, and it’s great that he can give into every little urge now. He slings his arm around Castiel’s neck just because he can and presses a kiss to his temple. “Good,” he says into Castiel’s hair. “I didn’t plan on giving it back.” 

They stay touching until Sam wanders over. He’s smiling brightly at them; he doesn’t say anything about their closeness, but the good natured cracks are in his head, Dean can tell. 

“So, Cas,” he barks, clapping his hands together, “you excited about hitting the road with us?” 

“Very much so.” Castiel had a small taste yesterday, but they were only driving for an hour or so through a surprising amount of traffic, so it wasn’t a great representation. Now that he’s sticking with them, he’s got the rest of the trip to experience. “Dean said we’re heading towards the Grand Canyon.” 

“That’s the plan.” Sam is holding something behind his back, and it crinkles in the slight breeze. The only reason Dean doesn’t worry is because he knows the MOL folders are sitting buried in the trunk where he left them. “I actually have something else in mind as well,” he adds, and brandishes a badly folded map to Dean’s dismay. 

“What? The Grand Canyon isn’t enough for you?” 

Sam spreads the map across the hood of the car, and Dean shuts the trunk with a sigh before joining him. Castiel follows as Dean’s hand doesn’t seem to want to let go of his sleeve. 

“Since we’re in Colorado, I thought we could take a bit of a detour.” Sam points to where Dean has a vague understanding they are and drags it north a small ways. “We’re pretty close to the Stanley Hotel, Dean. That’s worth a look, isn’t it?” 

Dean tilts his head, considering. “It’s in the opposite direction,” he says, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. 

It’s not confirmation and Sam waits. 

Castiel is peering over Dean’s shoulder, taking in the lines on the map with a kind of abstract knowledge of it in theory, but little understanding in why it matters to them both. Dean turns his head into him. “What do you think?” 

He feels Castiel shrug against his back, and his breath ghosts along Dean’s neck when he says, “Let’s do it.” 

He may only be agreeing because he has no feelings either way, but it earns him a pleased slap from Sam that rocks him into Dean and, just like that, everyone’s happy. 

“Alright then,” Dean says, “but if we get axed to death, I’m blaming both of you.” 

\- 

“Where did you go last night?” 

Sam has graciously let Castiel claim the front seat again, and Dean doesn’t know why it’s such a prized position because Sam always complains about leg room; it’s obvious he actually enjoys stretching out across the back bench so much more. Castiel enjoys being at Dean’s side so, really, it’s win-win. 

They’re also heading north instead of south, and Castiel blinks into the sun before turning towards Dean. 

“I went to say goodbye to Amanda.” 

Dean starts in surprise. He expected some rambling tale about healing babies, saving kittens, what have you, not a simple goodbye. 

“Is she still playing with a full deck?” 

“I didn’t erase her memory, if that’s what you mean.” 

“That’s good.” 

Castiel sighs and rubs his palms down his thighs. “Since no one came for her yesterday, I think she should be safe.” 

He still looks guilty, so Dean reaches for the twitching hand closest to him and squeezes it in support. The road is straight for the moment, and he leaves his hand there for as long as he can, saying nothing. 

-

**Thursday (Late afternoon)**

 

Dean whistles sharp and shrill when the Stanley Hotel bleeds into view. Well, it doesn’t so much bleed as blink into existence once he rounds a bend, but the sky overhead has turned cloudy and the blinding white expanse of the building is ever so slightly dulled. 

“I feel seriously underdressed,” he laughs, spurring Sam into the same reaction, and starts up the winding road that leads to the hotel. 

The grounds around it aren’t exactly healthy and green like Dean had expected; he’d already resigned himself to the fact that there wouldn’t be any snow, but the dry, yellowed grass seems just as unfitting. 

“Dude, I doubt we can afford this place even with fake credit cards,” Sam adds, over their shoulders. 

They roll past a line of suitably expensive cars. Inwardly, Dean knows his baby wins, hands down, but it’s an insight into the kind of people they were going to have to attempt to blend in with and, all of a sudden, he isn’t feeling so confident. For guys who grew up on a steady diet of the cheapest motels, this is a little out of their range. 

“We could break in,” Sam suggests with that ridiculous frown he always pulls, and Dean rolls his head to simply look at him. He ends up snorting in his face, because was that expression really supposed to convince him this was possible? 

The engine goes silent, throwing the three of them into the task of peering up out of the windows at the massive building ahead, and as Dean stares, he thinks. 

“Alright,” he starts, “take off your coat, Cas. We need to blend in.” 

\- 

Inside, the hotel is huge. It may be missing most of the heavy hints of Kubrick’s style, but the place is still pretty grand and well out of their range. People are milling about the lobby, where there’s an honest to God working fireplace surrounded by plush armchairs. The people are heading every which way, so they’re in luck that no one pays them much attention. They can’t linger around yet, but Dean vows to check out the whiskey bar before they leave. He doesn’t exactly have a bucket list like Sam, although so far all Sam’s list consists of is: ‘The Grand Canyon’ and ‘Find Cas,’ and both of those have been crossed off, but he can certainly appreciate a drink at the world’s coolest bar. 

He’d let Sam briefly fish Colorado’s folder out of the trunk to discern the room number that was supposedly haunted and they trail through the lobby, trying to look like they belong. 

Halfway across, Castiel spots a display of artfully placed brochures, and the things must be like catnip to the guy because he veers off towards them and Dean has to wrap his fist into the back of his suit jacket to keep him on track. 

“On the way out,” he promises and Castiel accepts that with a kind of grace. 

There’s a kid wearing a red cap, sitting primly by the display, and he’s the only one who seems to be paying any attention to them. He must be waiting for his parents or something because he looks suitably blank and bored. Dean smiles at him, conveying the message that nothing weird is going on here and the kid just starts to kick his legs back and forth before grinning wildly. 

Okay, Dean admits, this kid could give the creepy twins in ‘The Shining’ a run for their money. He tears his eyes away and hurries after Sam, who is turning a corner up ahead, while dragging Castiel along. 

They make their way through the halls of pale, patterned wallpaper while the numbers on the doors steadily rise. The hotel is a lot more modern looking than Dean had expected, and there’s no trace of a seventies air about the place, but then he remembers he’s an idiot and despite all the stories that surround this place, it still only gets a single mention in the folders. It can’t be all that spooky, not really. He feels fairly certain they’re not going to be washed off their feet by a sea of blood. About 90% sure, anyway. 

Sam eventually pauses outside of a door, room 407, and when they catch up, he raps his knuckles against the wood. No one answers so they take it the room is unoccupied. 

“Keep watch,” he instructs, crouching down, “I’m going to try and break the lock.” 

Dean and Castiel create a pretty suspicious-looking barricade around the door and stand around awkwardly while Sam huffs and clicks his tongue in frustration when the door doesn’t give way immediately. 

“This would be so much easier,” he grunts, “if places just stuck to using keys.” 

The door beeps angrily at him in warning but he keeps working. 

Something brushes by Dean’s hand while they wait and, being in a known haunted hotel, he feels justified jolting at the touch. He glances down and flushes when he notices it’s just Castiel’s hand. It not so subtly brushes by again, and he tangles their fingers together. 

They’re still no closer to opening the door when Castiel suddenly stiffens. 

“I think someone’s coming,” he says and, sure enough, a few seconds later Dean hears steps heading their way. 

“You might want to hurry up, Sam.” 

“I’m trying.” 

The noise of his struggling fills the corridor, and Dean counts down the seconds until they have to move away to at least create an illusion of innocence. They’re really pushing it; someone will be coming around the corner very soon. 

There’s a sound like snapping plastic and then Sam’s quietly whooping in victory as the door swings open. They near enough fall in, shutting it in a hurry, and find themselves holed up in a dusty, rarely used room while the steps eventually pass them by. 

Turning his nose up at the dust, Sam asks, “What now?” 

Dean tugs Castiel further into the room and says, “We wait.” 

-

**Thursday (Night)**

 

In the end, they’re not doing anything special when it happens. Dean had found one of the numerous Halloween sequels on some horror channel; he looked for ‘The Shining’ but came up empty, and he and Sam had been trading complaints about it back and forth for the past hour. Castiel sits next to him, equally watching Dean, Sam, the TV and a collection of brochures he’d snuck out to retrieve earlier while Dean had treated himself to a drink with a rapt kind of attention. 

Someone has just been impaled in a suitably gory, ridiculous way on the screen, and Dean is in the middle of pointing out how fake the intestines look when the TV goes blank and all the lights extinguish themselves. 

Now, it isn’t a power cut because there is still light spilling in from under the door, meaning it’s clearly only this room that has been affected, so they all wait, in the darkness, for something else to happen. 

But nothing does. 

“I take it this is far from what you thought it would be,” Castiel says to the room, and Dean can virtually feel the disdain. He can vaguely make out Castiel’s unimpressed silhouette by his side, and he thinks about throwing something at him and blaming it on the ghost. 

“Is that it?” Sam’s disembodied voice agrees. “I kind of expected…I don’t know…something at least.” 

There’s a disgruntled rustle as Dean climbs off the bed, and then a series of bumps and grumbles follow him across the room. He seeks out the bathroom through feel alone and blindly stumbles inside to rip open the shower curtain. He’s disappointed to find nothing there as well. 

“What a load of bull,” he groans as he stomps back into the room. “Where are my bodies in the bathtub and freaky backwards mirror writing?” 

“Maybe he’s feeling shy?” Sam unhelpfully supplies. 

“It is three against one,” Castiel adds, and Dean hates them both. 

He stands in the middle of the room with his arms crossed and tries not to feel betrayed by his man Jack. 

“Wait a second,” Dean says, letting their humour at the situation subtly seep into him, “I read something earlier about this place.” He clears his throat, earning an expectant look from Sam and shouts to the room, “Hey! Some of us are trying to read here. How about a little light?” 

Dean waits, and after a short, tense silence the lights flicker back on in what he can only describe as a sheepish fashion. 

While they all blink and get used to sudden brightness, Sam snorts. He hides his laughter badly, but it gets Dean started, and then pretty soon they’re both laughing so hard that Dean has to use the bed to hold himself up. Castiel glances between them, confused, and that just makes them laugh more. 

Over the noise they’re making, Dean hears Castiel tell the ghost, “Thank you,” before simply going back to reading his pamphlets. 

They end up spending the rest of the night laughing on and off about polite ghosts that cower to a little authority. Dean has to admit, though; the guy’s not completely spineless, because when he demands the TV back, the light strobes with a warning of ‘don’t push your luck.’ 

In the morning when he goes to shower, Dean’s strangely touched to find, ‘sorry you were disappointed’ scrawled backwards in the bathroom mirror. Whoever wrote it used black permanent marker, and if Dean notices a smudge of black of Cas’ fingers when he comes back out, he doesn’t say anything. They’ll be long gone by the time anyone finds it. 

-

**Friday**

 

Friday mostly passes in a blur. 

With the admittedly stupid detour, they’ve added a few miles to their trip, and Friday turns into a productive day while they make up the distance. 

With Sam and Castiel regularly swapping out the front seat, meaningless conversation rarely dies out, and the majority of the driving falls to Dean as he doesn’t trust either of them to drive. Sam could easily drift asleep, and he’s doesn’t think he’s ever even seen Castiel behind the wheel. While it makes his eyes feel gritty and sore, he doesn’t mind. He drives with the window down more often than not, and everything is just so good; the scream of road, the company, and even Sam is looking a little healthier as the climate dries. 

Things are good for once. And the fact that he can just grab Castiel at any time and crowd him against the car might be his new favourite thing. 

He enjoys it all while he can because, this time, when it all goes to shit and everything gets taken away from him, it’s really going to hurt. 

-

**Saturday (Late Afternoon)**

 

The world around them quickly shifts from green fields to vaguely orange landscapes, and they cross over into Arizona sometime in the early morning. By the afternoon, signs for the Grand Canyon become more and more frequent until, with an anti-climactic turn in the road, they’re there. 

Dean keeps driving until they reach a parking lot as close to the south rim as possible because he foresees a lot of walking and, as much as Sam keeps telling him he’s fine, he’d rather not tempt fate. 

It’s not difficult to find their way around. By now, the place is packed with tourists, and Dean feels so very out of place when the three of them walk slowly behind a family of four, the smallest trailing a few steps behind. And did a sports team win something recently, because Dean swears he’s seeing red caps everywhere lately? 

He forgets any feeling of not belonging, though, when they pass one of the many viewing points and Dean gets his first real glimpse of the canyon. 

It’s big, he thinks. Impossibly big. 

Sam stumbles by him, moving closer to the edge, and Dean has to fight the protective urge to pull him away from certain death. It’s ridiculous. Kids actually fieldtrip here; it’s not dangerous, but he’s spent the past week analysing every little grimace Sam has made so sue him if he doesn’t want to wipe out at the last hurdle. 

He doesn’t really need to worry. When Sam wraps his hands around the railing and breathes a deep sigh, he’s perfectly content. Happy, even; something Dean had almost forgotten how to recognise. Castiel stands at his other side and the sun beats down unrelenting on his shoulders. 

Weirdly, this is nothing like what he pictured all those days ago at the bunker. 

As a result from thinking ahead, there’s a warm six-pack in the trunk of the car that could complete the picture, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and he’s pretty sure the family to their right wouldn’t appreciate it if he went to get it. 

It’s okay. Really, it is. They don’t need it. This is already so very different from his dream in a way that he never believed it could be. To prove to himself he can, he slides his arm around the sun-warmed expanse of Castiel’s shoulders and pulls him closer. Castiel moves readily, just pressing together, and it’s more intimate than anything else they could be doing. 

Sam’s grinning into the sun and, with a shuddering sigh, Dean joins him. 

“What do you say, Cas? Is this worth having to put up with us non-stop for a couple of days?” 

Castiel squints into the abyss, pretending to think, and Sam laughs heartily, reaching around to slap him on the back. 

\- 

Since they’re finally here, they decide to make the most it. They follow the path that leads along the rim and not too long after that, Sam breaks away with a sappy smile, telling them he’ll be back soon. 

He finds them again half an hour later. There’s a nervous aura around him as he approaches them. 

“Where have you been?” Dean asks, meeting him halfway. And he’s curious, not worried. 

Instead of answering, Sam holds out his hand. It jingles, and when Dean looks down, there’s an old, rustic key attached to a square of red plastic. Sam drops it into Dean’s waiting hand. As soon as he reads the off-white lettering, his head shoots back up with his eyebrows raised. 

“Bright Angel Lodge? Are you kidding me, Sam?” 

In his other hand, there’s a bundle of brochures and he hands them to Castiel wordlessly, only nodding when he gets a bright smile in return. He shrugs at Dean, only a hint of teasing under genuine happiness. And that’s no fair, bringing out the puppy dog eye like that. What can he say to those? 

“We’re staying here?” Castiel asks lightly, eyes already roving over the bright coloured papers as he ignores the unspoken conversation going on over his head. 

“I figured why not? Thanks to the night we didn’t pay at the Stanley, we had a bit of money.” 

Dean narrows his eye,s but slips the key into jacket pocket for safe keeping. “This place is a tourist trap, Sam. We must have gotten ripped off.” 

Sam shrugs and says, “Probably.” 

Just like that, Dean guesses they’re staying the night right on the edge of the south rim. 

-

**Saturday (Night)**

 

“I’m going for a walk.” 

Castiel glances up from his spread of new pamphlets and watches Dean tiptoe around the bed where Sam is dozing quietly. Dean struggles into his boots and grabs a coat; the temperature drops pretty quickly around here when the sun goes down, and the last thing he needs is a cold. When he reaches for the door, he hears a soft thump as Castiel carefully sets the stack down. 

“I’ll come with you,” he says; he pitches his voice low so as to not disturb Sam but, to Dean, the whisper sounds oddly intimate and he stomps down on the nervous fluttering he feels in his chest as Castiel goes about finding his shoes. 

He scribbles a quick note for Sam and leaves it on the table in clear view, and then he’s gently shutting the door behind them. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, although he thinks that’s probably why Cas wants to join him. Dean only wishes that he got the same kind of satisfaction out of seeing the world’s barely-there wonders as Cas did, but most of the time a rock is just a rock to him, even if it is a particularly big rock. 

Dean tucks his hands into his pockets and turns away from locking the door, only to find himself struck still by the long line of Cas’ neck as he peers up at the orange sky. He looks so completely at ease, standing at the edge of wilderness, Dean thinks. It’s almost odd. There’s not a coppery scent of blood between them, no glint of a descending blade, and the invisible strings pulling them both in different directions have been cut and discarded. There’s nothing but a guy and angel, in the same place at the same time, and it’s a brief insight into what could have been if things were different, if they were different. Around a streak of surprise and a deep, deep guilt, Dean realises that this is probably what it feels like to be content. When Castiel steals his gaze a moment later, he wonders again how long it’s going to last this time. 

He bumps his shoulder against Castiel’s in honest affection and chooses a direction at random to start walking. Castiel follows easily, falling into step beside him with a rhythm as smooth as breathing. 

Dean doesn’t want to talk shop. He’s knows it’s important, the fate of the world literally hangs in the balance, blah blah blah, but he has Sam to remind him about their mission this year; he doesn’t need it weighing down his head every second of the day. It’s not healthy. Castiel, on the other hand, seems to want to share in his wilful ignorance and honestly, who is Dean to judge? 

“So…what do you think of Arizona so far?” Dean asks. 

They’re walking along the path that connects each of the lodges. There’s enough distance between the buildings to create a sense of isolation and not a lot of light to guide the way. Every time the trees become dense and inky black, Dean thinks they’ve reached the end, that they’re finally branching off onto untouched ground, and then an eerily lit cabin bleeds through the trees and he remembers they’re not completely alone. Memories of Purgatory come to mind, but he stomps them down. 

Most of the lights are off at the next cabin, except for the porch light. Whoever’s staying there is probably already asleep. When Dean looks away from the cabin he finds Castiel watching him, and it occurs to him that he still hasn’t answered his question. He doesn’t bother pushing it. 

After another straight stretch, the path veers to the left revealing a viewing point. It probably has a nonsense name like all the rest, but Dean can’t see a sign. He follows it anyway, dropping down the rough, uneven stones until the trees part and, in a blink, it’s like daylight has broken; Dean would swear he’s missing time somewhere and it’s suddenly morning. But that’s not right, because he can see the moon hanging above a vast canyon of nothing, and behind him, night still lingers between the trees. 

Castiel slips past him when he fails to move closer, and he takes the few remaining steps with one hop to sidle over to the railing surrounding the gorge. The incredibly thin railing, Dean notes, separating him from a pretty serious plunge. 

He makes his way over to Castiel’s side at a more sedate pace, and they lean their torsos over the edge of the canyon to breathe in the natural air. 

“I can see why people travel from all over to come here,” Castiel says, eyes bright and clear. 

“It’s pretty awesome,” Dean agrees. 

He’s seen pictures, of course, but they don’t really do justice to how big the canyon really is. He’s also never heard of whatever phenomenon it is that is making the wide space glow like this, like it’s morning instead of the dead of night. It’s seriously worth coming here at night just for this. 

A quiet “Dean” comes from Castiel, and Dean already knows what’s coming before he turns. One thing he’s noticed about this new development between them is that Castiel seems to enjoy taking control. Now, Dean’s no stranger to submission, but it doesn’t usually happen around guys. While he’s never been in a situation quite like this with a guy, sexually, outside of the bedroom, he’s a fighter. Maybe he guessed it would be the same when things got heated. 

It’s really not though; he’s actually quick to realise he’ll let Castiel do anything he likes. 

Like right now for instance. 

Castiel presses close, demonstrating nothing but want and affection, and buries his face into Dean’s neck. The stubble on his jaw scratches, and put that down as another thing Dean never knew he craved. 

Over the past couple of days they’ve been in constant close quarters with each other and Sam. The situation doesn’t lend itself to privacy, and they’ve made do with a lot of touching and the occasion kiss. Whenever they get a moment alone, it usually dissolves into this. Not that Dean has a problem with it. 

The railing digs uncomfortably into his back, but it’s last on the list of sensations assaulting him. The slick slide of a mouth against his is top priority. 

He’s not sure how long they get lost in each other, but it screeches to a halt between one second and the next. Castiel jerks back and his mouth forms a grim line. 

“Dean,” Castiel says suddenly, but it doesn’t sound right; too tense, too edgy, it immediately has Dean squaring his shoulders. 

Before he can ask what’s wrong, though, Castiel has his arm in a tight grip, tugging him away from the railing and safely behind him. 

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean splutters but he goes ignored. 

“Who are you?” Castiel shouts into the darkness ahead of them instead, and it finally fully clicks in Dean’s mind that something’s really wrong here. 

Dean can see his breath hanging in the air when he breathes into the silence. His eyes flicker between Castiel and the path that melts into a mess of trees, but when Castiel holds his protective stance, he keeps his guard up too. 

“Shit,” he whispers, patting down the front of his jacket, “I left my gun back at the lodge.” He wants to kick himself. This is what he gets for letting himself get lulled into this kind of fabricated happiness. There’s a knife tucked into the lining of his boot, but it’s not Ruby’s knife; he left that with Sam, and since when has it ever been something innocuous coming after them? 

“I doubt it would help us anyway,” Castiel agrees, reading his mind, and Dean doesn’t like the tone of his voice or the fact that he is still gripping his arm, ready to push him out of danger. 

A twig breaks under something’s weight, capturing their attention like a gunshot, but nothing follows it out. Dean starts to make a move for his knife and Castiel’s hand stays on him as he crouches down. Once he has the body-warmed metal in his hand, he straightens back up. 

“What do you think it is?” 

“I can’t be sure,” Castiel sighs, and the guilt that bleeds into his words is staggering, “not without…” 

Dean nods, understanding. “Not without angel mojo,” he finishes. “I get it.” 

The wind howls across the canyon, around the railings and catches the back of Dean’s jacket, sending a cold shiver through him. A noise screams past his ears and, for second, he almost mistakes it for the wind, but when the current passes, the noise is still hissing at them. 

“I wonder,” it mouths into the air, “which one of you I’ll eat first?” 

Dean’s fingers curl tighter around his knife. The voice has the consistency of radio static. 

“What order,” it crackles right by Dean’s ear, “will hurt you the most?” He lashes out with the knife at empty space. 

“What the hell?” Dean exhales, fighting off the chill from the creepy whispered threats. He quickly scans the area around him and finds nothing close enough to touch him. 

There’s another loud crunch ahead of them, and Castiel’s hand squeezes him in warning. A figure begins to creep out of the darkness, and Dean’s first thought is that it’s small. The creature’s only as tall as a child, and why is that always so much freakier? It stops in the shelter of a greying tree before they can make out anything other than its general shape and a strange halo of dark red. 

Castiel tenses next to him, seeing something that Dean doesn’t. 

“You’ve been following us,” he says, and Dean has to take his word for it. “Since Colorado at least.” 

A radio somewhere tunes into a different station, and the resultant static seems to laugh at them now. “Longer for you.” 

Dean risks a quick glance at Castiel and sees his jaw is clenched. His brain must be working hard, scanning back through various memories until he finds the right one. It’s starkly clear when he finds it; his eyes flash in anger and he grounds out between his teeth, “I remember you.” 

Now, Dean’s willing to admit that he’s a little lost, but then the creature takes another step forward, catching the dim light just so, and Dean can see that it’s not a halo at all but a red baseball cap. All of a sudden, he can feel the little shit’s elbow in his stomach as he runs past like it’s happening right now. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Dean blinks incredulously. “You’re that kid, from the park.” He nudges Castiel with his elbow and stage whispers, “And here I had you pegged as the child catcher. I was way off.” 

Castiel makes a noise close to a hush, just something to tell Dean ‘now is really not the time’, while the creature seems to delight in a little playful toying from his meals. It inches closer, teeth bared in a snarl that looks so much out of place on a kid’s face. Dean makes sure to remember that as he weighs the slightly off balance of his knife, that there might be an innocent, scared out of his mind, kid behind that mask. 

“You were at the Stanley Hotel as well,” Dean says, recalling the unsettling boy in the hotel lobby, “I remember seeing you.” 

“I’ve been everywhere you’ve been,” the creature rumbles. 

“So, what?” Dean shrugs. “Do you get your kicks from being mothered or something? Why choose a kid?” 

“Camouflage.” 

Dean scoffs. What can he say? It worked. 

He surges against Castiel’s steadying hand and gets pulled back into place. Castiel turns his head back, trusting Dean to keep the creature in his sights and as a result his breath ghosts hot over Dean’s face. “We’re virtually unarmed, Dean. I think it would be best if you didn’t antagonise the thing that wants to eat us.” 

“Well, what else you do suggest? You said it yourself; all we have is a knife.” Dean scans the figure in front of them and finds no hints as to what the thing is. From what he can gather, the kid it’s wearing looks to be about twelve years old and much too young to be glaring at them like this. “We don’t even know what it is.” 

Castiel drops his chin, shielding his face from the creature entirely. “I could deal with it,” he starts, clearly dreading the words coming out of his mouth and warming the skin at Dean’s neck, “if I just…” Dean feels soft pressure brush by the top of hip and Castiel’s other hand gestures vaguely, catching the material of his jacket. 

Dean’s shaking his head before he even finishes. “Not without bringing Naomi straight to your door. It’s not worth it.” 

He can feel Castiel’s eyes hold their stare on his face but he’s busy keeping the creature in its spot and, really, what did Cas expect of him, that he’d be just fine with him putting them all in more danger? Of course not. 

“Okay,” Castiel says, and he thinks he can hear relief in it. 

“How touching,” the voice mocks. “It’s really going to hurt when I pull pieces off you one by one while the other watches; like tearing the legs off an insect.” 

Scowling, Dean carefully detaches Castiel’s hand and steps to the side. If he can goad the creature over to himself then…Dean shrugs in his mind, he can figure out what to do then when the time comes. At the moment, he just needs to keep Castiel from shining like a beacon. 

“Why play the long game?” Dean quizzes, taking another sideways step. “You’ve had plenty of opportunities to catch Cas while we weren’t around.” 

There’s a flash of white as the creature grins, his face is otherwise hidden under his cap. “Why should I be happy with one prize when I can have three?” 

The smug son of a bitch already thinks he’s won, and it spurs Dean into anger. 

“What are you going to do? Eat us? Really?” 

He continues to circle around, keeping the creature’s attention on himself, and it seems to be working. 

“Eventually,” it crows. “Maybe I’ll start with your brother. He’s looking a little sickly.” 

Dean’s expression darkens and his fists clench at his sides. “If you touch my brother, I’ll kill you the messiest, most painful way I know how.” 

Another step sideways and Dean sees Castiel raise his hand after him, a calculating look in his eyes. 

“And what would that be?” It laughs like a crackling fire without any of the warmth. It slowly steps out from the cover of the trees. “You don’t even know what I am.” 

“Hey, I’m happy to try anything once.” 

He’s running out of space to move, but it’s okay because the creature is fully away from the trees now. It doesn’t advance any closer, but its eyes bore into Dean like it’s savouring his fight and can’t wait to find out how all this verbal tenderising is going to make him taste. All that’s left for Dean is to find out how much damage a regular blade can do to it without dying in the process. Shouldn’t be too difficult. 

He grips the knife tight and lifts it until moonlight glints off the blade. “What makes you think Cas here isn’t just going to melt your insides?” he asks, and it’s a fair question. 

“Dean,” Castiel warns, and Dean immediately regrets bringing his name into things because the creature turns to acknowledge him. The sly smile that breaks across its face can only mean bad things. It’s like they’re playing poker, and it already knows all the cards in play. 

“The angel can’t do anything,” it says with such confidence. “Not without bringing hell down on all your heads. He won’t risk it.” 

“You said you’ve been following him, so you must know he’s slipped under their radar before. Who says he can’t do it again?” 

The creature grins. It’s three of a kind against a pair. Close but no cigar. 

“I do,” it says. “The only reason they haven’t found you both already is because I didn’t allow it. It hasn’t been luck following you all this time; it’s been me. And now I’ve had enough of this game and I want my prize.” 

Its eyes flash red, the same shade as the hat on its head, and then Dean feels a force pushing at his chest. He instantly fights against it, but goes nowhere. The gravel under his feet provides no grip, slipping out from under him, and then he’s sliding backwards. After a few feet, his back hits the railing and panic surges through him. 

“Whoa,” he splutters, gripping the barrier as the invisible force slowly crushes him. “You can’t eat me if I’m splattered across the bottom of the canyon.” It’s a weak breathless argument, but who cares. 

Castiel growls from his place on the other side of the point, and his legs are shaking in a way that tells Dean another force is keeping him rooted to the spot. 

Things are coming to a messed up end, and Dean isn’t exactly sure how to get out of this. 

The creature bares it teeth and keeps pushing. “Sometimes I like a little puree,” it laughs. 

It’s possibly the least threatening thing Dean’s ever heard, but he forgets all about it when the child-sized body in front of him seems to start doubling in mass, growing huge and twisted. Its skin stretches to the point where it looks like it’s going to split apart, showing the muscle underneath and all the while, during the transformation, it’s making a painful, guttural keening noise. 

When its eyes eventually snap open, oversized chest now heaving, it no longer resembles a kid and Dean only has a second to think, shit, this is a terrible way to die and then the huge, hulking mess is barrelling towards him. 

It’s almost funny, he thinks; maybe he’ll be taking that leap after all. 

There’s a terrible crack, but he doesn’t feel anything hit him and when he peels his eyes open, he doesn’t see the sheer cliff face tumbling away, only the tight pull of Castiel’s shoulders as he stands between Dean and the creature. His arm is buried up to the elbow in the monster’s chest, and inky black blood is running down his sleeve. A faint glow emanates from inside while Castiel picks up on Dean’s earlier suggestion and literally burns away its insides. With a dull thought, Dean realises the noise he heard must have been the sound of bone snapping, and he shudders. 

The thing’s eyes are wide in shock and pain. It obviously didn’t expect this, and Dean reluctantly agrees he’s surprised too. It gasps one horrible rattling breath before slumping to the ground. 

Neither one of them moves for a long, drawn out moment. 

Dean pants, and Castiel seems to be having an internal struggle as he reins himself back in from his explosion of power. The moment quickly shatters, though, with all the force of a bolt of lightning and then Castiel turns, smacking his hands to Dean’s face without a thought to how disgusting they are. 

“Are you okay, Dean?” He tilts his head in every direction, checking for any signs of injury. Dean tries to dislodge him, but Castiel’s grip is firm. 

“Me?” he laughs. “You’re the one who just punched through that thing’s chest.” 

“It almost killed you, Dean. I didn’t…I didn’t have any choice.” 

The hands drop from his face, and Dean takes that as a sign that he can step away from the railing. 

“I’m not going to say that wasn’t disgusting, because it was, but that was pretty awesome, Cas.” He carefully circles the body, just in case it’s faking them out, but black ooze is seeping across the floor, so he’s pretty sure it’s dead. “Did your fist come out the other side?” 

He’s still laughing and shaking from the adrenaline. Castiel hasn’t said a word since Dean moved out of his grasp, and the air is heavy around them, like he’s missing something. He catches the expression on Castiel’s face when he seeks it out, and it makes him worry. 

“Shit, Cas. Are you okay?” 

Castiel’s head snaps up. His eyes are watery and fierce. “I need to leave.” 

“The thing’s dead. We’re okay now.” 

“I used my powers, Dean. Without the monster’s influence, the other angels will be here any minute. I need to protect the angel tablet, and if they find me here, with you, they’ll torture you too. I need to go.” 

“What? No, Cas. You’re not going anywhere.” Dean’s hands find Castiel’s coat and he twists the material tight to tether them together. 

“The damage has already been done. I’m sorry, Dean.” 

“Bullshit,” Dean growls, and he can feel the control he had slipping uselessly through his fingers just like Castiel’s coat. “We can deal with this together, Cas, like we always do. We’re together now, you can’t just disappear again.” 

Castiel drops his head. Although he stops trying to untangle Dean’s hands, he’s slumped in defeat, and Dean’s stomach drops. He feels sick. He kept joking everything was going to go wrong, but he didn’t think it could ever hurt quite like this. 

“I don’t regret what happened between us, but it was a mistake. I’m more sure of that now than ever.” He surges forward, and the kiss is desperate and as messy as all the others, except there’s a clear goodbye in it as well, and Dean doesn’t want it end. It does though, with Castiel pulling back. “Remember the crypt? Well, I need you too, which is why I must do this. It would be better for us all if this week never happened. I’m truly sorry, Dean.” 

He threads his fingers through Dean’s hair, and Dean thinks he’s going in for another kiss, but Castiel keeps them apart. Dean realises too late that the hands in his hair are not meant to be a comfort but a means of contact so Castiel can use his powers. 

The last thing he hears is Castiel’s steady voice saying, “Don’t worry. I won’t leave Sam behind,” and then everything is washed out by a brilliant, warm flash of white. 

-

**Sunday (Morning)**

 

Waking up in his own bedroom at the bunker is a wonder that will never leave Dean. Just having a private place where he can put all his belongings; it’s something he never thought he’d have, and he dreads the inevitable day they’ll have to give this up. Because the day will come. They always do. 

He slips on some long dead guy’s robe that he secretly knows has become his own and stumbles out of the room towards the kitchen. 

The coffee is ready by the time Sam shuffles in to join him, and Dean hands him a mug without looking. They down their drinks respectively and, finally, Dean runs his eyes over his brother, noting the loose shoulders and healthy glow of his skin. 

When did this happen? Yesterday Sam was a mess of various unknown illnesses, and today he looks cured. 

“Huh? You look better,” he says, and the pleased joy echoes in his voice. 

“Yeah,” Sam answers, and he scratches his head in bafflement. “I feel better. I actually feel like I’ve slept for a week.” 

Dean scrubs at his jaw and the surprising amount of stubble there before saying, “I think we might have. This past week passed in a blur. I don’t even remember most of it.” 

He sets their mugs down in the sink and is struck by a fleeting sense of déjà vu. If they’ve been here for a week, he would have thought he’d be itching to get some fresh air, but he’s all right. He just doesn’t feel stir crazy, which is weird. 

Sam stretches big and wide, rubbing his eyes, and then glances up in faint excitement. 

“Oh yeah, I forgot to say. I think I’ve got a lead on Kevin.” 

Dean nods encouragingly. “Yeah? Well, let’s get to work.” 

They make their way over to the cluttered workspace, and after a couple of minutes Dean forgets all about the vague images he thinks he might have dreamt about last night,- the domestic images, the painful images, the soul-warming, intimate images - and gets to work. 

-

**A few weeks later**

 

It’s not until a few weeks later, when they’re crossing through Colorado for a routine job, that something happens to make Dean doubt himself and that week that seems to have been wiped from his memory. 

They stop at a small diner near a park and, while the place is packed, the noise is actually comforting. Their waitress takes their order and then disappears back into the mess. All the time they’re eating, Dean swears he can feel a gaze on him. When he looks up, his eyes lock with those of a woman across the diner, a waitress. She smiles and waves like she knows who they are. 

From his seat, Dean can just make out her nametag: Amanda. He doesn’t recognise her, but there’s something familiar about her. When they leave later, she must be busy too, because they don’t see her again. 

It’s cold out when they step outside, and Dean makes a detour to the trunk, remembering he’d stashed a jacket away in there a while back. After he lifts it out, his eye is drawn to a battered-looking green backpack that he doesn’t recognise. Unzipping it, he finds a collection of junk; rocks, a pine cone, an old fortune cookie, a few yellowed books, and a lot of paper. 

What the hell is this? 

He pulls out something at random, and it turns out to be a leaflet advertising helicopter rides over the Grand Canyon for ridiculous prices. Dean frowns in confusion. He didn’t put this here, so it must have been Sam. And why? Is he fishing for something? 

Dean throws the bag back into the trunk. He doesn’t know what that kid’s thinking half the time. They are way too busy for something like this. They’re still struggling to find Kevin, they’ve got trials to finish, Crowley needs to stopped and, at some point, he hopes to run into Cas again, because they can’t leave things the way they did in that crypt. 

He gets back in the car and never mentions the Grand Canyon around Sam. 

They just do not have the time.


End file.
